Toynbee’s first wife, from 1913 to 1946. Cv (page here).
The Leading Note, Sidgwick and Jackson, 1910
Moonseed, Sidgwick and Jackson, 1911
Unstable Ways, Sidgwick and Jackson, 1914
The Happy Tree, Chatto and Windus, 1926
Hard Liberty, Chatto and Windus, 1929
On the Greeks
The Greeks, Preface by Gilbert Murray, A&C Black, 1931
Religious tracts after conversion to Catholicism
The Good Pagan’s Failure, Longmans, Green & Co, 1939
Time and the Timeless, Centenary Press, 1942
The Life of Faith, Centenary Press, 1943
The Forsaken Fountain, Hollis and Carter, 1948
The Further Journey: In My End Is My Beginning, Harvill Press, 1953
She had a small reputation as a novelist before 1920.
Virginia Woolf, diary, November 12 1917: “I went to Mudies, & got The Leading Note, in order examine into R.T. more closely [...]. I came home with my book, which does not seem a very masterly performance after Turgenev, I suppose [The Leading Note is about a Russian refugee]; but if you dont get your touches in the right place the method is apt to be sketchy & empty.” Both from html sources.
McNeill: “Her career as an apologist resembled her career as a novelist in the sense that The Good Pagan’s Failure attracted much more attention than what followed.” But he regards The Happy Tree as her best novel.
UK publishing dates.
Archive for the 'Autobiography/biography' Category
I have corrected and added to yesterday’s post on Atlas and Antaeus.
Alan Macfarlane on Oxford and Cambridge; beware his dates; he is at the back of King’s College and Clare:
Toynbee’s paternal ancestors were east of England farmers, but he was an Oxford man who spent most of his working life outside a university. He was, however, invited in 1947 to become Regius Professor of Modern History at Cambridge in succession to GN Clark. See McNeill, pages 208-10 on his reasons for declining. The chair was taken by JRM Butler instead.
Part of David of Sarasota, a silly undated film sponsored by the Sarasota County Chamber of Commerce, produced by LeRoy Crooks. Via Florida Memory, an initiative of State Archives of Florida. The 14-minute version has a clip of Toynbee, a charter faculty member of New College and in residence from December 20 (probably) 1964 until April 8 1965.
The College, an initiative of local citizens led by the Chamber of Commerce, had been founded in 1960. Toynbee’s appointment was announced October 5 1963 (St Petersburg Times, October 6, Sarasota Herald-Tribune, October 6). The College opened its doors to students in the fall of 1964.
Charles Ringling (1863-1926) of the Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus was the older brother of John Nicholas Ringling (1866-1936). The Ringling Brothers Circus acquired Barnum and Bailey in 1907.
Near the campus is the John and Mable Ringling Museum of Art, John Ringling’s gift to Florida, “the museum the circus built”, with its bronze replica of Michelangelo’s David; on its property are the Museum of the Circus and the Asolo Repertory Theater, whose late eighteenth-century interior was shipped from Asolo, near Venice, in 1949.
We are shown the Ringling complex, and the Players Community Theater, Florida West Coast Symphony Orchestra, Sarasota Concert Band, Sarasota High School and its Sailor Circus, Emmett Kelly, Ben Stahl, Thornton Outes, Syd Solomon, Al Buell, John D McDonald, Irving Vendig, beach life and sport, Florida Ballet Art School and Hilton Leech Gallery.
Material from Toynbee’s New College lectures found its way into Change and Habit. From 1955 to 1967, Toynbee exploited the possibilities of the American lecture circuit. “Each time he used his host institutions as a base from which to travel far and wide in pursuit of additional lecture fees.” (McNeill)
Tempting as it would be to call this post Bread from circuses, New College was not a Ringling foundation (though the Ringling School of Art was).
The lectures – one was on Food and Population – are likely to have been in the usual mould. Did these recycled talks justify the fees? And as McNeill asks, were his side-trips fair on his hosts, who were paying to have him on their campus?
Florida Memory is wrong in dating the film to “ca. 1950s”. It is 1965, though, admittedly, most of the time Sarasota looks as if it is stuck in a more than ordinarily complete southern time-warp.
Toynbee to Columba Cary-Elwes, February 24:
The students here (all 100 of them, all straight of out high school) are of a very high level, and are very much worth trying to help, but we don’t like this part of Florida. After Denver, where we were very happy, it seems un-genuine.
He had taught at the University of Denver in the last quarter of 1964. April 5:
Though the students at New College are good, in every sense, we shall not be sorry to leave Sarasota: you have here the worst side of American life: frivolity combined with militant conservatism.
“His three months here included:
“Seven major lectures to New College students and guests.
“Appearances on campuses in South Carolina, Tennessee, Gainesville and Miami, Florida.
“Weekly seminars with students.
“‘Bull Sessions’ with students after each of his formal lectures.
“Appearance with other world figures at the ‘Pacem in Terris’ conference in New York to discuss ways to achieve world peace.
“Broadcasts and telecasts on every major television and radio network at the time of the death of Sir Winston Churchill.
“Special appearance on the Today Show on the NBC network.
“Selected guest appearances, numerous dinners and social occasions.
“Completion of the manuscript for a new book [Hannibal’s Legacy].
“Aside from his public appearances and rigorous class and work schedule, Dr. Toynbee lived quietly with his wife in a home in the Uplands. They were often seen walking in the neighbourhood and the sight of the historian crossing the campus from his home to College Hall was a familiar one.
“Student recollections of Dr. Toynbee will always be of a man of great gentleness, unfailing kindness, simplicity in his approach to even great matters, and directness in his reply to even the most complex questions.”
He had been honest enough to share something of the feeling about Florida that he had expressed to Columba:
“Interesting was his comment that life in Florida somehow seems to be ‘unreal’. He explained that so many people now in Florida had formed their lives in different communities, had lived their working days elsewhere, and had then moved here attempting to begin another life, often a different way of living.”
It was becoming a state of migrants. Low taxes, air conditioning and the Interstate highway system had brought retirees from the Northeast, Midwest and Canada. The Cuban Revolution of 1959 produced a wave of Cuban immigration. There were Haitian and other Caribbean and Central and South American migrants. Since the early twentieth century much of the old African American population had been migrating to the north.
The black population of Florida had been 44 percent at the beginning of the century. It was still 16.5 percent, and Sarasota was presumably not a statistical exception, but you don’t see a single black face in the fourteen minutes of David of Sarasota. De facto apartheid will have added to the feeling of unreality. (Stanley K Smith, Florida Population Growth: Past, Present and Future, Bureau of Economic and Business Research, University of Florida, Gainesville, June 2005)
We have met Toynbee at that first, 1965 Pacem in Terris conference already: New York 1965: Ideology and Intervention (old post). If the audio links there and in Santa Barbara 1967, and the age of planning aren’t working, I hope to restore them.
To Columba, February 24:
I got back late last night from the Pacem in Terris Convocation (I was one of the speakers yesterday morning, [footnote: A.J.T.’s speech was the basis of “Change – Minus Bloodshed,” published in Rotarian 106, no. 6 (June 1965): 40-41.] with Senator Fulbright in the chair). The best of the chairmen was Barbara Ward.
According to the Online Archive of California, the event had ended on February 20. Fulbright opposed the Vietnam policy of the Johnson administration.
My main impression was that Pope John’s love and concern for his fellow human beings has broken through all barriers. Communists, Asians, Africans all spoke about him with affection and gratitude, and I am sure they were being sincere. This is one of those timely acts that cannot be undone. Pope John has “made history”, I should say, in the deepest sense.
He is referring to Pacem in Terris, the encyclical John issued on April 11 1963, a few weeks before he died. It made history because it was explicitly addressed not only to Catholics, but to “all men of good will”.
My second impression is that the American people are committing, pretty heavily, the sin of pride, and are thereby drawing on themselves the moral disapproval of the rest of the world. They are refusing to admit that they may have made a mistake [in Vietnam], that mistakes have to be paid for, and that America cannot be – and ought not to be – always 100 per cent victorious. The choice before them, and this in the near future, is either a compromise over Vietnam or MacNamara’s 1 to 7 million American casualties [where does he get that from?], but they do not seem to be facing the choice. Certainly they are not in our “blood and tears” mood of June, 1940. This is very disturbing in a nation which has mankind’s fate in its hands.
News release, op cit:
“Thursday the college officially bade the Toynbees farewell at a tea in their honor in College Hall. Students, faculty, and staff gathered in the Music Room and many of the College family found it difficult to move away from the historian after they had shaken his hand, reluctant to say goodby [sic] to this British couple who had been such a part of their lives.”
Reminiscences of his time there are in Sarasota Herald-Tribune, October 23 1975. He had a high opinion of the Florida students. He believed that the “bull sessions” and seminars were of more value to them than the lectures.
Christian B Peper, editor, An Historian’s Conscience, The Correspondence of Arnold J. Toynbee and Columba Cary-Elwes, Monk of Ampleforth, with a Foreword by Lawrence L Toynbee, OUP, by arrangement with Beacon Press, Boston, 1986, posthumous
In Japan the period 935-1185 saw a progressive transfer of power and wealth from the exotic Imperial Court at Kyoto to provincial barons, and a concomitant lapse from domestic peace into civil disorder. The peace of the capital itself was disturbed more and more frequently and rudely by incursions of the armed forces of adjacent Buddhist monasteries. A civil war between two provincial families of Imperial descent, the Taira and the Minamoto, culminated in 1185 in the victory of Yoritomo Minamoto and his establishment of an effective dictatorship over the whole of Japan from a base at Kamakura – just beyond the southwestern extremity of the Kanto, the biggest of the rare plains on the main island, Honshu. [An hour out of Tokyo by train.] The Imperial Court and its sophisticated culture were allowed to survive at Kyoto, but the Kyoto Government was deprived of effective power. De facto, the Imperial Government at Kyoto had been controlled by regents belonging to the Fujiwara family since at least as early as 858, and, after Yoritomo Minamoto’s death in 1199, the regency for the Bakufu (military government) of the Shogun (Commander-in-Chief) at Kamakura was acquired in 1203 by the Hojo family, who stayed in the saddle till 1333 and maintained effectively, till about 1284, the regime that Yoritomo Minamoto had instituted.
Japan had never before been so efficiently governed as she was from 1185 to 1284, and the gross national product increased, though there was also an increase in the inequality of its distribution. Japan was fortunate in having a strong government during this century; for the Mongols invaded Japan in 1274, and again in 1281, after the completion of their conquest of the Sung Empire in 1279. On both occasions Japanese valour was assisted by storms that made havoc of the invaders’ ships. In 1274 the Mongols’ expeditionary force was small, and it broke off its attack after only one day’s fighting. In 1281 the invading force was on a large scale, and the attack was kept up for two months [before it was repulsed].
The military government of Kamakura was more in tune than the civil government at Kyoto with the cultural and social conditions of twelfth-century and thirteenth-century Japan. Yoritomo Minamoto and the Hojo regents who carried on his regime at Kamakura had contemporaries who played a corresponding role in the field of religion. The earliest forms of Mahayana Buddhism that were introduced into Japan via China and Korea were abstruse in their metaphysics – though some monasteries of these sects became crudely militaristic in their practice on Japanese soil. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, Buddhism was presented to the Japanese people in simplified forms in which it was comprehensible and congenial to wider circles. A sect of Zen (Ch’an, Dhyana) Buddhism was introduced into Kamakura in 1191. The Zen spiritual technique of achieving sudden enlightenment through severely disciplined meditation was attractive to the soldiers [samurai].
Zen was the Japanese variant, introduced under the Kamakura shogunate, of Chán, a Chinese school of Mahayana Buddhism which emphasised dhyana, concentrated meditation.
Honen (1135-1212) [Jōdo-shū school] and Shinran (1173-1262) [Jōdo Shinshū school] appealed to the masses by concentrating on the repetition of the name of the bodhisattva Amida (Amitabha) as a talisman for securing admission, after death, to the “Pure Land”, Amida’s paradise.
Nichiren (1222-82) concentrated on chanting the praise of the Lotus Sutra. He was more akin to the ninth-century-B.C. Israelite prophets Elijah and Elisha than to any traditional Buddhist sage. Nichiren combated all other Buddhist sects, intervened actively in politics, got into trouble with the Bakufu, but won popularity by preaching resistance to the Mongols. Each of these twelfth-century and thirteenth-century Japanese simplified forms of Buddhism still had numerous adherents in the 1970s.
Toynbee himself, at the end of his life, knew and recorded a dialogue with Daisaku Ikeda.
Ikeda in his youth had joined a lay organisation founded in 1930 which propagated Nichiren Buddhism among the urban rootless called Soka Gakkai. In 1960 he became its President. In 1975 he set up Soka Gakkai International as an umbrella organisation for Soka Gakkai-affiliated groups around the world. After Toynbee’s death, the Nichiren Shōshū priesthood cut off relations with Soka Gakkai and Soka Gakkai International and excommunicated Ikeda.
Polly Toynbee on Ikeda.
Mankind and Mother Earth, A Narrative History of the World, OUP, 1976, posthumous
The Hannibalic war in Italy was, very probably, the most terrible war that there has ever been, not excepting the recent war in Europe. The horror of that war haunted later generations, and its mere memory made oblivion seem a desirable release from an intolerable world.
Nil igitur mors est adnos neque pertinet hilum,
quandoquidem natura animi mortalis habetur.
et velut anteacto nil tempore sensimus aegri,
ad confligendum venientibus undique Poenis,
omnia cum belli trepido concussa tumultu
horrida contremuere sub altis aetheris oris,
in dubioque fuere utrorum ad regna cadendum
omnibus humanis esset terraque marique,
sic, ubi non erimus, cum corporis atque animai
discidium fuerit quibus e sumus uniter apti,
scilicet haud nobis quicquam, qui non erimus tum,
accidere omnino poterit sensumque movere,
non si terra mari miscebitur et mare caelo.
That is a passage of Lucretius (iii. 830-842) which follows upon an elaborate argument to prove that death destroys personality and that the soul is not immortal. Here is an attempt at a translation:
“So death is nothing to us and matters nothing to us, since we have proved that the soul is not immortal. And as in time past we felt no ill, when the Phoenicians were pouring in to battle on every front, when the world rocked with the shock and tumult of war and shivered from centre to firmament, when all mankind on sea and land must fall under the victor’s empire and victory was in doubt – so, when we have ceased to be, when body and soul, whose union is our being, have been parted, then nothing can touch us – we shall not be – and nothing can make us feel, no, not if earth is confounded with sea and sea with heaven.”
Lucretius wrote that about a hundred and fifty years after Hannibal evacuated Italy, but the horror is still vivid in his mind, and his poetry arouses it in our minds as we listen. The writer will never forget how those lines kept running in his head during the spring of 1918.
But the victors suffered with the vanquished in the common ruin of civilization. The whole Mediterranean world, and the devastated area in Italy most of all, was shaken by the economic and social revolutions which the Roman wars brought in their train. The proletariat was oppressed to such a degree that the unity of society was permanently destroyed and Greek civilization, after being threatened with a violent extinction by Bolshevik outbreaks – the slave wars in Sicily, the insurrection of Aristonikos and the massacres of Mithradates in Anatolia, the outbreaks of Spartakos and Catilina in Italy – was eventually supplanted by a rival civilization of the proletariat – the Christian Church.
From synoikismos to dissolution (old post).
From chapter called History contributed by Toynbee to RW Livingstone, editor, The Legacy of Greece, Essays by Gilbert Murray, W. R. Inge, J. Burnet, Sir T. L. Heath, D’Arcy W. Thompson, Charles Singer, R. W. Livingstone, A. Toynbee, A. E. Zimmern, Percy Gardner, Sir Reginald Blomfield, OUP (Oxford at the Clarendon Press), 1921
In A.D. 1952 the writer’s earliest surviving memory was a recollection of having taken and carried out, at the age of two, on the beach at Abersoch in Wales, a decision to run into the sea in order to find out what would happen. What did happen is that his nurse ran in after him, pulled him out, and, in the act, sprained her ankle. There was no benevolently officious nurse to pull him back from the intellectual plunge that he made, six years after that, into the ocean of History.
A Study of History, Vol X, OUP, 1954 (footnote)
With wife Veronica (woman in pale coat), September 14 1966. Via difilm-argentina.com, an archive of television and cinema footage. No sound.
“En un avión de la empresa Aerolíneas Argentinas arriba al Aeropuerto Internacional de Ezeiza, el filosofo e historiador ingles, Profesor Arnold Joseph Toynbee junto a su esposa; tras descender del avión es recibido por un grupo de personas.”
There had been a military coup in June. The first of the three dictators of the so-called Revolución Argentina was in power.
Argentina endured five periods of military rule between 1930 and 1983, of which the last was the worst: 1930 (first coup) to ’32, ’43 to ’46, ’55 to ’58, ’66 to ’73 (Revolución Argentina), ’76 to ’83 (Dirty War). The Falklands War with Britain took place during the last.
The Brazilians’ nationalism is ironic and light-hearted; the Argentinians’ nationalism is romantic and intense.
Toynbee says in Between Maule and Amazon that he was in Córdoba on September 28 1966 when (not his words) nineteen young, armed Argentine nationalists calling themselves Condors hijacked an Aerolíneas Argentinas DC4 during an internal flight and landed on Stanley Racecourse in the Falklands/Malvinas to plant the flag there.
It does not seem to have occurred to him that the new junta might have welcomed or even staged the event. The organiser, Dardo Cabo, spent a short time in prison, moved from right to left, and was executed during the Dirty War. I am writing this while Spain is agitating about Gibraltar.
A light plane piloted by a Miguel Fitzgerald had touched down on the racecourse in 1964. In October 1968 a group of Argentine naval special forces conducted covert landings from a submarine. The leader of the team, Juan Jose Lombardo, later, as Chief of Naval Operations, planned the 1982 invasion. In November 1968, Fitzgerald tried to repeat his landing and failed. Fitzgerald died in Buenos Aires in 2010. Lombardo is still alive.
On December 21 1966 Toynbee hand-delivered Between Maule and Amazon to OUP in London. The Maule had been the southern frontier of the Inca Empire. It runs east to west a little more than halfway down Chile.
Most of the book describes travels in Brazil, Uruguay, Argentina and Chile in 1966. There are also impressions of places beyond the Amazon: Mexico in 1953, Guatemala in 1958, Puerto Rico in 1962, Venezuela in 1963. It does not contain detailed itineraries. I will reconstruct what I can and put the details on the page here called Itinerary. Nothing is said about previous publication, but at least part of the content had been syndicated by the Observer Foreign News Service.
The difilm archive lists other clips which can’t be seen online. All sin sonido, silent. In date order and adding links, they are, with times:
Buenos Aires, August 19 (which should surely be September), 1:07: “El filosofo e historiador ingles, profesor Arnold J. Toynbee, visita el Museo Histórico Nacional y recorre las instalaciones acompañado por su director, el capitán de navío (re) Humberto F. Burzio, seguidamente el profesor Toynbee firma un libro de visitante ilustre.”
Córdoba, October 6, 4:49: “El filosofo e historiador ingles, profesor Arnold J. Toynbee, visita la Provincia de Córdoba. Descripción del film: 1. El profesor Toynbee asiste a una recepción ofrecida por autoridades de la fábrica de automóviles Industrias Kaiser Argentina (I.K.A.). 2. El profesor Toynbee visita la Catedral de Córdoba y realiza una recorrida por sus instalaciones. 3. El profesor Toynbee se reúne probablemente con el Gobernador de Córdoba. 4. El profesor Toynbee realiza una conferencia de prensa para los medios de esa provincia. 5. El profesor Toynbee se reúne con el Arzobispo de Córdoba, Raúl Francisco Primatesta. 6. El profesor Toynbee realiza una disertación en teatro.”
Córdoba, October 6, 0:31: “El filósofo e historiador ingles, profesor Arnold J. Toynbee, visita la fabrica de automóviles de la empresa Industrias Kaiser Argentina (I.K.A.) y recorre las instalaciones.”
Buenos Aires, October 9, 0:24: “En el Consejo Deliberante se lleva a cabo el 4° Congreso Internacional de Historia de América en la Academia Nacional de la Historia, asiste el Presidente de la Comisión Académica Organizadora, doctor Ernesto J. Fitte, y el Presidente del Congreso, doctor Ricardo Zorraquin Becu, entre otros; y se ve una disertación del filosofo e historiador ingles, profesor Arnold J. Toynbee.”
Buenos Aires?, 1966 (no exact date), 0:19: “El filosofo e historiador ingles, profesor Arnold J. Toynbee, realiza una disertación en la Universidad Católica Argentina, se encuentra a su lado el señor Emilio Stebanovich, quien hace de traductor.” Which campus not stated.
Buenos Aires, 1966 (no exact date), 0:20: “El filosofo e historiador ingles, profesor Arnold J. Toynbee, realiza una disertación en la escuela superior de guerra.”
Between Maule and Amazon, OUP, 1967
I quote this every few years because it must be the most concise evocation of a certain mood of late Victorian and Edwardian England, and perhaps of a section of Austria-Hungary, in literature. He does not seem to have known the passage, but it expresses Toynbee’s retrospective view of the world in which he grew up.
“We too had many pretty toys when young:
A law indifferent to blame or praise,
To bribe or threat; habits that made old wrong
Melt down, as it were wax in the sun’s rays;
Public opinion ripening for so long
We thought it would outlive all future days.
O what fine thought we had because we thought
That the worst rogues and rascals had died out.
“All teeth were drawn, all ancient tricks unlearned,
And a great army but a showy thing;
What matter that no cannon had been turned
Into a ploughshare? Parliament and king
Thought that unless a little powder burned
The trumpeters might burst with trumpeting
And yet it lack all glory; and perchance
The guardsmen’s drowsy chargers would not prance.”
Yeats, from Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen.
“In later years Philip [Toynbee] and his father came to have a sort of arm’s-length love for each other, although their many disagreements of outlook and philosophy persisted. They chose an unfortunate vehicle for sorting out their respective views: a book called Comparing Notes: A Dialogue Across the Generations [actually A Dialogue across a Generation], published in 1963 by Weidenfeld & Nicolson.
“What may have been a high point in the father/son relationship surely marks a nadir in English publishing. The 155 pages of tape-recorded exchanges between the two results in the non-book of the year. One can sense the squirming, the shifting in the chairs, the effort to relax as the tape rolls forward recording the Wise Sayings of normally stiff-upper-lipped father and son. The reader suffers along with the participants – and learns almost nothing about the Toynbees as a family; Mummy isn’t even mentioned.
“Philip leads off:
‘I thought we might approach what is going to be a rather difficult job by putting the interview under various headings.’
Arnold: ‘Yes, I think that that’s a good way to start.’
PT: ‘Right, well, I suppose the most fundamental question anyone could ask anyone else is, do you believe in God?’
“They give God a longish whirl – Indian and Chinese beliefs, Christians, Jews, Moslems, agnostics, Roman Catholics and so it goes.
“By page 34, Philip is listing the Seven Deadly Sins – but he has forgotten one.
AT: ‘You’ve missed out Pride.’
[They discuss Pride at some length. Then:] [bracket in Mitford]
PT: ‘Shall we go on with the Deadly Sins?’
PT: ‘Now Sloth. That would seem to be a slightly odd one, because it seems a rather innocent failing …’
“The publisher, perhaps out of Sloth, did no editing of the tapes, supplied no useful footnotes. At the very beginning of the conversation Arnold Toynbee says:
‘My parents were fairly liberal-minded, but we lived with an old great-uncle of mine whom you know all about.’
PT: ‘Uncle Harry?’
AT: ‘Yes, Uncle Harry …’
“Uncle H. appears elsewhere in the text, but nowhere is he further identified; nor are Arnold’s liberal-minded parents. The effect is like being at one of those smart cocktail parties where there are no introductions, it being assumed that Everybody who is Anybody will know the other guests.”
Jessica Mitford, Faces of Philip: A Memoir of Philip Toynbee, Heinemann, 1984.
The book has a few redeeming lines. I have quoted it here once or twice. I mention three other published dialogues in the bibliography here:
Surviving the Future, OUP, 1971, with Professor Kei Wakaizumi of Kyoto Sangyo University
Toynbee on Toynbee, A Conversation between Arnold J Toynbee and GR Urban, New York, OUP, 1974
With Daisaku Ikeda; Richard L Gage, editor; Choose Life, A Dialogue, OUP, 1976, posthumous
A better book of 1963 was Mitford’s own The American Way of Death.
Toynbee acknowledged a debt to German atlases in writing his survey of Europe in the early months of the First World War. In addition to maps,
I am also indebted to books. Among works of reference I would single out two of Baedeker’s handbooks, the eleventh edition of Austria-Hungary (1911) and Konstantinopel und Kleinasien (1905), but in this case [both cases?] the German source yields precedence to the Encyclopædia Britannica (eleventh edition, published in 1911), which has proved the most indispensable of all my guides. My extracts from the official census returns of various states are nearly all derived through this channel, [footnote: The 1911 edition of the Encyclopædia takes its Austro-Hungarian statistics from the census of 1900: I might have rectified them by the more recent returns of 1910, but I have deliberately refrained from doing so. The figures of 1910 of course represent the present absolute totals of the various populations more accurately than those of 1900, but relative rather than absolute quantities are valuable for my purpose, and in this respect the figures of 1900 are undoubtedly more accurate than those of 1910. In 1900 the “official” proportions were doubtless already distorted by the Hungarian census-officials, and doubtless the real proportions have slightly shifted in the meanwhile, but both these margins of error are insignificant compared with the gross perversions of truth perpetrated by Hungarian officialdom in 1910. So rapidly is a nation demoralised when once it succumbs to chauvinism.] and I have made especially diligent use of the excellently arranged articles on “Austria-Hungary” and “Hungary.”
For what I have written on Hungary I am likewise in debt to the illuminating study on Hungary in the Eighteenth Century, [footnote: Published by the Cambridge University Press.] by Professor Marczali, the Magyar historian, but above all to the work of Dr. Seton-Watson. So far as I deal with his subjects, my information is taken at second hand: I have learnt all I know about “Magyarisation” from his Racial Problems in Hungary, and all I know about modern Croatia from his Southern Slavs. I can do no better than refer the reader to these two books for the substantiation of my indictment against the Magyar nation. The War and Democracy, written in collaboration by Messrs. Seton-Watson, Dover Wilson, Zimmern and Greenwood, was only published after the relevant part of my own book was already in proof, and I have not yet had leisure to read it. Yet though I have been unable to borrow from the book itself, I owe an incalculable debt to another of its authors besides Dr. Seton-Watson. I have had the good fortune to be Mr. Zimmern’s pupil.
So much for maps and books: they cannot compare with friends. Without the help of my mother and my wife, this book would never have grown ripe for publication, and I have to thank my wife’s father, Professor Gilbert Murray, Mr. A. D. Lindsay and Mr. H. W. C. Davis of Balliol College, and Mr. R. W. Chapman of the Clarendon Press, all of whom have read the book in whole or part either in manuscript or in proof. Their advice has enabled me to raise the standard of my work in every respect. When the critics tear my final draft in pieces, I shall realise how my first draft would have fared, had it been exposed naked to their claws. Last but not least, I must express my gratitude to my publishers, Messrs. J. M. Dent and Sons, Ltd., for their unfailing kindness, especially for bearing with my delays and reproducing my maps.
ARNOLD TOYNBEE. February 1915.
No authorship is stated for the maps.
He cites the 1914 edition of Konstantinopel und Kleinasien in The Western Question in Greece and Turkey, A Study in the Contact of Civilizations, Constable, 1922.
Marczali’s book contains an introductory essay on earlier Hungarian history by Harold Temperley, to whose The Non-Arab Territories of the Ottoman Empire since the Armistice of the 30th October, 1918, OUP, 1924 Toynbee would later contribute.
Toynbee wasn’t the only historian to have acknowledged a debt to the eleventh edition of the Britannica. HG Wells admitted that swathes of his Outline of History relied on it. Many of the original articles in Wikipedia were imported from it.
Paget Toynbee rebuked his nephew in writing for not differentiating his name from that of the other Arnold Toynbee, Paget’s late brother, on the title page of his first book. Given the fame of the earlier Arnold Toynbee and Arnold J Toynbee’s obscurity in 1915, the rebuke seems justified. His subsequent books – except for his other Dent production of 1915, The New Europe, and a few at the end of his life – were signed Arnold J Toynbee.
Nationality and the War, Dent, 1915
The writer of this Study had the good fortune, as a child, to catch a last glimpse of the sailing-ship before she vanished from the seas, and to be initiated into the lore of her divers rigs by the former master of an East Indiaman, his great-uncle Captain Henry Toynbee (vivebat A.D. 1819-1909), who had retired from the sea in A.D. 1866 without ever having seen service on a steamship or indeed on any build of sailing-vessel other than a full ship since his first voyage at a tender age on a barque [which is a “full ship”]. On summer holidays in the eighteen-nineties at St. Margaret’s Bay on the English shore of the Straits of Dover, under the eye of the South Foreland lighthouse, the small boy learnt the rigs from the old sailor as the ships came gliding past: schooners and three-masted schooners and top-sail schooners (very common); brigantines and brigs (rather rare); barquentines and barques; and full-rigged ships ranging from classic three-masters to the four-masters and five-masters that were a nineteenth-century revival of a sixteenth-century fashion. He learnt to know and love them all, without ever suspecting that he would live to see the disappearance of this divine work of Man’s hands which, in his uncle’s confident eyes, was as much a part of the eternal order of Nature as the chalk cliff on which they were standing, or as the water which gave the measure of the distance from the shore to the passing ship. In the eighteen-nineties the sailing-ships plying through the Straits were still far more numerous than the steamships (though doubtless steam had by then long since outstripped sail in aggregate tonnage). As late as the summer of 1910, there used always to be several four-masted sailing-ships at anchor in Falmouth harbour, and in the summer of 1911 the wreck of one huge sailing-ship was lying huddled against the cliffs between the South Foreland and Dover. Yet, already, forty years back, sail was being driven by steam off one sea-route after another. The China tea clippers had been put out of business by the opening of the Suez Canal in A.D. 1869, which had deprived them of their advantage over steamships trying to compete with them on the long voyage round the Cape; by A.D. 1875 all routes except the Australian had been captured by steamships; and in A.D. 1881 the Australian route itself was conquered for steam by the S.S. Aberdeen with her triple expansion engines, though the wool clippers went on fighting their losing battle till the end of the decade. The interval between the first two world wars saw the process of extinguishing the sailing-ship completed.
Clippers were very fast sailing-ships that appeared in their classic form at the same time as steamships and competed with them for a generation.
Footnotes refer to three works previously cited:
Clowes, G. S. L.: Sailing Ships, their History and Development: Part I: Historical Notes (London 1932, H.M. Stationery Office) [...].
Abell, W.: The Shipwright’s Trade (Cambridge 1948, University Press) [...].
Bassett-Lowke, J. W. [that should be W. J.], and Holland, G.: Ships and Men (London 1946, Harrap) [...].
Footnote on Uncle Harry:
“Captain Henry Toynbee was one of the most scientific navigators of his day. … ‘He was always sure of his longitude within five miles,’ writes one of his officers. And his wonderful landfalls were the admiration of his passengers.
“Toynbee … went to sea in 1833 at the age of fourteen as a midshipman in the East Indiaman Dunvegan Castle. … Toynbee’s first command was the Ellenborough; and he had also commanded the Gloriana and Marlborough before he took over the Hotspur, the command of which he resigned in 1866 in order to succeed Admiral Fitzroy as Marine Superintendent of the Meteorological Office. He retired in 1888, and lived to be over ninety years of age, an example of all that an officer in our mercantile marine should be” (Lubbock, Basil: The Blackwall Frigates, 2nd edition (Glasgow 1950, Brown, Son, & Ferguson), pp. 145-6).
In The Times of the 25th January, 1951, a photograph will be found of “the Pamir and Passat, the last two sailing barques to take part in the traditional grain race from Australia to England, lying at Penarth Docks. They will be taken in tow to Antwerp for breaking up.”
The four-masted barque Petschili in the English Channel between 1903 and 1918; the Petschili was built in Hamburg in 1903 and beached in 1919 in Valparaiso and was a sister ship of the Pamir and Passat just mentioned; Wikimedia Commons
One of those four-masted sailing-ships at anchor in Falmouth harbour, watercolour, Henry Scott Tuke, 1914
A Study of History, Vol IX, OUP, 1954
A Study of History, Vol IX, OUP, 1954 (footnotes)
“Professor Arnold Toynbee believes that his book will become outmoded, but that his notions are keys to opening up a vista of human affairs.”
Films Media Group offers streaming and/or a DVD of A Conversation with Arnold Toynbee from NBC’s Wisdom series, which were half-hour interviews with good and great broadcast allegedly between 1957 and ’65, though this one is said to have been conducted in 1955. No exact date is given, unless it appears in the end credits. Available in US only. Academic institutions get three-year streaming rights for $129.95. An individual can buy the DVD for the same price.
The first two minutes can be seen gratis as a preview, recorded in the spartan enough study of his flat at 45 Pembroke Square, Kensington.
“Professor Arnold Toynbee – eminent British historian and author of the ten-volume work A Study of History – talks with Harvard teaching fellow Christopher Wright in this NBC interview from 1955. Toynbee describes about how it took 27 years to complete his series and why he chose to study history on the level of civilizations rather than of single nations. Pointing out that his mother was also a historian, he discusses the path that led him to that field as well, then articulates his feeling that history is meaningless if not utilized for present-day insight; that one can discover patterns in the past without making heavy-handed predictions about the future; that there are about 20 large historical units, such as Western history, Greek history, Indian history, and others; and that the great religions of the world represent the ultimate structure of history. (29 minutes)”
Toynbee knew Wright, but Wright isn’t mentioned in his books or correspondence, or by McNeill.
“Airing on NBC from 1957 to 1965, the Wisdom series featured interviews with luminaries in science, the arts, and politics. These interviews were often conducted by a journalist or colleague well-known to the guest and usually took place in familiar surroundings such as the subject’s home or workplace. While each program forms a picturesque snapshot of the cultural conventions of the day, it frequently transcends its mid-20th-century broadcast style as it presents challenging and in-depth perspectives from a great mind. Guests include Igor Stravinsky, Robert Frost, Somerset Maugham, Eamon de Valera, Alfred P. Sloan, Robert Moses, Edward Steichen, Margaret Mead, Frank Lloyd Wright, Pearl Buck, Eleanor Roosevelt, Marcel Duchamp, Arnold Toynbee, and Carl Sandburg. 14-part series, 29 minutes each.” Links are to the rest of the series.
People who give many interviews develop an account of themselves which doesn’t change much. There are no surprises here, as there are not in most of his post-Study journalism.
“1. Professor Arnold Toynbee: Historian (02:03)
Available for Free Preview
The 10-volume set ‘A Study of History’ is Toynbee’s life’s work. Arnold Toynbee’s roots are in London although he harbors fond feelings for Yorkshire.
2. Professor Arnold Toynbee’s Passion for History (03:46)
‘A Study of History’ takes 27 years to complete. Toynbee’s mother was an influence on his desire to study history.
3. Toynbee’s Early Works (02:17)
In 1903 Professor Arnold Toynbee creates a drawing book fashioned in the form of a Greek Historian. Toynbee discusses his [1911-12] trip to Greece.
4. War Changes Toynbee’s Direction (03:11)
Sick with dysentery, Toynbee’s hospital stay during [surely before] the war changes his focus of history [it was the war itself that did that]. Toynbee soon [in the Greco-Turkish War] becomes a correspondent.
5. Importance of History (03:46)
Professor Arnold Toynbee does not believe a committee can write a book. He articulates his feeling that history is meaningless if not utilized for present-day insight. One can discover patterns in the past without making heavy-handed predictions about the future
6. Toynbee’s Theory of History (01:59)
Professor Arnold Toynbee feels that working with individual nations in history is too singular. He studies civilizations, origins, and believes that the great religions of the world represent the ultimate structure of history.
7. Characterizing Civilizations (03:13)
Professor Arnold Toynbee believes that one must look at other nations [not only one’s own] to understand an individual civilization. He discuses why he believes civilizations decline.
8. Challenge of Our Time (03:00)
Professor Arnold Toynbee believes we have the power to save ourselves. He discusses the affect of atomic weapons on the imagination. All individuals make history.
9. Religion in History (02:35)
Professor Arnold Toynbee believes that any challenge puts you face to face with religion. Religion is the mystery behind phenomena.
10. History Moves and Changes (02:41)
Professor Arnold Toynbee believes that his book will become outmoded, but that his notions are keys to opening up a vista of human affairs. He discusses other works and his faith in the future.
11. Credits: A Conversation with Arnold Toynbee – From NBC’s Wisdom Series (00:27)”
Can anyone identify all the monuments at the beginning? The Buddha at the top here? Is the print as one approaches his study Canaletto or later? (Toynbee was Canaletto-conscious. Did Canaletto put birds in his skies?) The other prints? Are the volumes on his desk the Study?
Other posts that link or linked to recordings or film footage of Toynbee are here.
David Cameron on Margaret Thatcher between 1979 and 1990: “She didn’t just lead our country; she saved our country.”
Below, Saving England, piece by Toynbee, Encounter, Vol 18, No 1, January 1962, section called Spectrum. A number of writers had been invited to comment on the spirit of the previous decade.
He argues that England’s future is in the Common Market or EEC. See also:
1. Television broadcast on Englands Rolle in der Weltgeschichte, Third Programme of Norddeutscher Rundfunk, Hamburg, winter 1961-62, heard in both English and German (with him speaking in both cases?); revised text published in German in England deutet sich selbst: 12 prominente Engländer über Politik, Wirtschaft, Gesellschaft und Kultur, Hamburg, Hoffmann und Campe Verlag, 1962.
2. Article on Going into Europe, Encounter, Vol 20, No 2, February 1963.
3. Article on Europa, der Gemeinsame Markt und England, Merkur, Vol 17, No 12, December 1963.
4. Letter to The Times, Gesture to European Unity, February 28 1967. Signed also by Edward Beddington-Behrens, George Buchanan, Maurice Cranston, Barbara Hepworth, Julian S Huxley, Jan Le Witt, Henry Moore, Laurence Olivier, Roland Penrose, Herbert Read, Ceri Richards, Patrick Trevor-Roper, Bernard Wall and dated February 25. Probably not written by Toynbee, but he is first signatory and the others are alphabetical. Asks for an exhibition of contemporary European art in London “to dispel lingering doubts and to demonstrate urbi et orbi that the notion of ‘little England’ is a thing of the past [...]”. A curiously insular gesture even for 1967.
5. Television broadcast über das Verhältnis Großbritanniens zum europäischen Kontinent, presumably in German, Südwestrundfunk, Baden-Baden (?), February 10 1969.
6. Article, Key to the European Super State, The Times, October 12, 1971. Argues that entry into EEC need not damage relations with Commonwealth.
7. In Morton’s incomplete list of articles sent to the Observer Foreign News Service for syndication to unidentified media here and there around the world, we have Why De Gaulle Will Fail, about France as an agricultural country (1963), Britain’s Place in the World (1966) and Why Britain Must Join Europe (1970 and, presumably different, 1971). In her list of articles written for the Central Office of Information for use in unidentified ways overseas is Historical Reasons behind Britain’s Entry into the E.E.C. (1972).
The Common Market or European Economic Community was established by the Treaty of Rome in 1958. Britain (and Norway, Denmark and Ireland) applied to join in 1961-62, under another Conservative, Harold Macmillan.
The spread of one’s spectrum depends on one’s age. If one is old enough to have been just grown-up before 1914, the far end of one’s spectrum will include a glimpse of Victorian-Edwardian England seen with a grown-up person’s eyes; and that glimpse, however brief, will abide in one’s memory as a foil against which all later events will stand out in sharp relief. If the accident of age has given one this perspective, that ought to be a help in trying to size up what has been happening in England in this last decade. The main feature of this decade has been a radical change in England’s position in the world; but it was the outbreak of war in 1914 that brought this change to the surface and gave it a momentum that was still unspent in the 1950s. This change is difficult for the English to cope with because the century that ended in 1914 was, for England, a time of rare greatness – and this in many different fields. Such a floruit was bound to be transitory. It is remarkable that England’s time of greatness should have lasted for a whole century; and, indeed, its full bloom did not last later than the 1870s. Anyway, it is over now, and England is having to find a new place for herself in a formidably changed world. In our own time, perhaps only one other country of the same stature is passing through the same ordeal, and that is France. The ordeal is a severe one, but, after all, it is the common lot. France and England are merely the latest of the many countries that have experienced it in the course of history up to date.
Sources of greatness: a landscape; a complex and detailed rural culture; the medieval Church; a Protestantism that encouraged people to think about their religion; a scientific tradition that went back to Francis, or Roger, Bacon (will we be reading obituaries of Sir Robert Edwardeses a century hence?); literary and scholarly traditions; political experience; individuality forged in idiosyncratic schools; privacy, from which vice came too; self-improvement among non-privileged urban people; humanitarian and social reforms.
In the past the English have avoided the awful mistake of crying over spilt milk. They have quickly found and milked new cows, instead of standing still and wringing their hands. They stopped grieving over their defeat in the Hundred Years War in the exhilaration of discovering and colonising a New World. They stopped grieving over the loss of the thirteen American Colonies in the exhilaration of making the Industrial Revolution and acquiring a new empire in India. In our day we have had recourse to this simple but effective British philosophy once again in meeting our own generation’s ordeal. Recognising, as we did in good time, that the days of colonial rule were numbered, we decided to make the liquidation of our 19th-century Empire into a festival instead of a funeral. We christened it the transformation of the Empire into the Commonwealth, and this has been no mere face-saving word-play; for, in the act of coining a new word, we managed to create a new reality. We also discovered that the maturing Commonwealth was not our only compensation for a fading empire. Simultaneously we found another new world to win within the coasts of our own island. If the 19th century was a golden age for England, it was not one for the great majority of her inhabitants. England’s century of economic and naval supremacy abroad was a century of shocking social inequality and injustice at home. In our generation we have won not only the Commonwealth but the Welfare State. (The name may be still controversial, at any rate in American mouths, but the thing itself has been accepted in England by all parties as a good thing which has come to stay.)
The Welfare State and the Commonwealth are obviously two of those exhilarating enterprises that are England’s traditional prescription for easing the painfulness of change. In both enterprises we have given ourselves an extra shot of exhilaration by contriving to be the pioneers and by doing promptly and with a good grace what we realised that we should have had to do, anyway, willy-nilly, sooner or later. Our good sense here is illustrated by the case of the French, who have done much the same things in the end but have done them belatedly, kicking miserably against the pricks and harvesting a minimum of credit, gratitude, and satisfaction. In contemplating their French contemporaries, the English of our generation are tempted to feel smug. The English can no more forget June 1940 than the French can, and the contrast between our respective performances in that year has, ever since, been making both nations awkward to deal with, particularly for themselves. The consciousness of having once been heroes can be as great a handicap as the consciousness of having once failed to rise to the occasion.
Fortunately to-day England is putting her childish pride in her pocket and is knocking at France’s door to ask for admittance to the Common Market. Within twenty-one years of the Battle of France the roles of the two countries have been reversed – and why? France is in a relatively strong position again to-day because she has discovered for herself the British remedy for the painfulness of change. On her overseas front France may be incorrigible. She seems to have learnt nothing and forgotten nothing as a result of her successive fiascos in Syria, Indo-China, and Algeria. General de Gaulle seems still to be dreaming of conjuring back to life the military power of Napoleon’s France or Louis XIV’s. But, since the end of the Second World War, most Frenchmen have been busy over something else. They, like us, have found a new world to win within their own home territory. They have been putting France, for the first time, through a thoroughgoing industrial revolution, and, on this economic plane, they have begun to think of French prosperity in the new terms of a united Europe, instead of going on brooding over past French glory in the antique terms of the Rhine frontier.
The post-war French have been making this new vision of theirs effective by translating it into reality through hard work. The French have always been hard workers in good times and in bad times alike; and on this point they might well feel smug to-day in contemplating us. The need to work hard now is one from which the English cannot be absolved by any past achievements; not by our victory in the Battle of Britain, not by our transformation of the Empire into the Commonwealth, not by the bloodless social revolution that has produced the Welfare State [the further Glorious Revolution, we might have been tempted to call it]. Achievements are wasting assets, and nothing but unremitting hard work can ever renew them. This truth ought to be obvious; for the post-war fruits of French hard work are only one example out of a multitude in the world around us. In a world in which Americans, Russians, Chinese, and Japanese, as well as Continental Europeans, are all working like beavers, can any nation afford to sit back and rest on its oars?
While the English have been prompt in making over the Empire into the Commonwealth and in narrowing the gulf between the former “two nations” on this island, we have been late in the day in accepting the fact that England is a part of Europe. The proper verdict on this English acceptance of geography is the one that Tennyson pronounced on the lady who told him that she accepted the universe: “By God, madam, you had better!” “How England saved Europe” was the title of a popular history of England’s role in the Napoleonic Wars that was published when I was a child. The author’s thesis was the conventional one that England saved Europe by keeping Europe divided. This may have been a service to Europe at times when unity was being forced on her by one Continental European country’s trying to conquer the rest. England once again saved Europe in that way in 1940; but the occasion will not recur; for to-day, when Europe has been dwarfed by the United States and the Soviet Union towering up on either side of her, that chapter of European and English history has been closed. On this point the Continental European countries have been quick in reading the signs of the times, and they have risen to the occasion by setting out to unite with each other by peaceful agreement. England has not, of course, dreamed of opposing this peaceful unification (she could not prevent it, even if she wished to). She has, however, dreamed of staying outside. This dream of England’s maintaining a self-contained sterling area next door to a united Continental Europe is about as crass an anachronism in our day as General de Gaulle’s dream of France’s regaining her Napoleonic military stature.
If England has now awoken from this dream of hers in time to gain admittance to the Common Market the title of the next chapter of the story may be “How Europe saved England.”
What is the Tennyson anecdote about? Does it have something to do with his proto-Darwinian preoccupations in In Memoriam?
A year after this, on January 14 1963, de Gaulle vetoed the British application to join the EEC at a press conference at the Elysée Palace.
“England in effect is insular, she is maritime, she is linked through her exchanges, her markets, her supply lines to the most diverse and often the most distant countries; she pursues essentially industrial and commercial activities, and only slight agricultural ones. She has in all her doings very marked and very original habits and traditions.”
“L’Angleterre, en effet elle est insulaire, elle est maritime, elle est liée par ses échanges, ses marchés, ses ravitaillements aux pays les plus divers, et souvent les plus lointains; elle exerce une activité essentiellement industrielle et commerciale, et très peu agricole. Elle a dans tout son travail des habitudes et des traditions très marquées, très originales.”
That was the first of his “Nons”, though, unlike Thatcher, with her reiterated Nos in the House of Commons, he did not use the word. October 30 1990: “The President of the Commission, M. Delors, said at a press conference the other day that he wanted the European Parliament to be the democratic body of the Community, he wanted the Commission to be the Executive and he wanted the Council of Ministers to be the Senate. No. No. No.”
The four countries reapplied in 1967. At a further press conference at the Elysée Palace on May 16, de Gaulle again made it clear that he would veto Britain’s application.
A few weeks later, the European Coal and Steel Community (1951, Treaty of Paris) and European Atomic Energy Community (1958, Treaty of Rome) were brought under the umbrella of the EEC. These were the three European Communities, often henceforward called European Community. The ECSC expired in 2002. The EAEC still exists. Would joining the EEC in 1962 have meant a fortiori joining the other two communities as well?
The transition to Pompidou in 1969 allowed the subject to be reopened. Negotiations began in 1970 under Edward Heath. Accession was on January 1 1973 under Heath (with Denmark and Ireland) without a referendum. The original six members became nine. Britain’s membership was confirmed in a referendum held on June 5 1975 under Harold Wilson. Thatcher won a permanent UK budget rebate in 1984. The EEC was renamed EU when the Maastricht Treaty came into force in 1993, to reflect its wider range of operation.
De Gaulle thought in old-fashioned terms (he also saw in British membership a Trojan horse of American imperialism in Europe), but was right about Britain fundamentally. Cameron said similar things in his Bloomberg speech in London on January 23 2013, fifty years, nearly to the day, after de Gaulle’s. “It’s true that our geography has shaped our psychology. We have the character of an island nation: independent, forthright, passionate in defence of our sovereignty. We can no more change this British sensibility than we can drain the English Channel. And because of this sensibility, we come to the European Union with a frame of mind that is more practical than emotional. For us, the European Union is a means to an end – prosperity, stability, the anchor of freedom and democracy both within Europe and beyond her shores – not an end in itself.”
Britain had seemed a semi-detached if not disruptive member. Thatcher never got past the idea that Germany had to be contained. Britain’s support of any proposal for expansion of membership masqueraded as pro-European, but came also from an instinct that the more members the Community had, the less likely it was to agree on anything or become monolithic. British political parties have ducked and woven through the decades to appease this or that side of a divided electorate. The Maastricht Treaty, though Thatcher had signed up to it (John Major signed it), left Britain more uneasy than ever.
The prospect, after the scale of the debt crisis became apparent in 2009, of a much tighter and more centralised fiscal régime in the EU concerned even a member that had opted out of joining the Euro (which was introduced in physical form in 2002). Cameron, op cit:
“At some stage in the next few years the EU will need to agree on treaty change to make the changes needed for the long-term future of the euro and to entrench the diverse, competitive, democratically accountable Europe that we seek. I believe the best way to do this will be in a new treaty, so I add my voice to those who are already calling for this. My strong preference is to enact these changes for the entire EU, not just for Britain. But if there is no appetite for a new treaty for us all, then of course Britain should be ready to address the changes we need in a negotiation with our European partners. The next Conservative manifesto in 2015 will ask for a mandate from the British people for a Conservative government to negotiate a new settlement with our European partners in the next parliament. It will be a relationship with the single market at its heart. And when we have negotiated that new settlement, we will give the British people a referendum with a very simple in or out choice. To stay in the EU on these new terms, or come out altogether. It will be an in-out referendum.”
Toynbee had suffered an incapacitating stroke by the time Thatcher became Leader of the Opposition in February 1975. What would he have thought of her? He and his wife joined the Labour Party in 1918 and voted for it at the Khaki election, to the disgust of the Countess of Carlisle. McNeill: “His attraction to the Labour Party [...] dimmed after 1922 almost as swiftly as it had arisen, and Toynbee retreated from political activism towards a nonparty, vaguely liberal point of view in domestic and foreign affairs.” He would vote Liberal in later years.
More than one piece of journalism by him in the ’60s and ’70s expresses alarm at the trade unions’ abuse of their power. He lived to see the nadir of postwar economic morale in England, the Three-Day Week in the first quarter of 1974 under the Conservative government of Heath, though not its reprise, the Winter of Discontent of 1978-79 under the Labour government of Jim Callaghan which led to Thatcher’s victory. See:
1. Letter to The Times, Backing Britain, February 10 1968 about Wilson’s I’m Backing Britain campaign and the secret union trial and condemnation of four shop stewards who did back Britain by working an extra half-hour a day without pay (he calls himself a Liberal in this letter). This seemed a tawdry and tired campaign even at the time, but was much-noticed in an age of few media outlets and gave a pop-art twist to use of the national flag.
2. Article on The English Sickness, The Observer, November 10 1974. I remember in the ’80s looking at a pile of letters in an attic in which was a letter from early 1974 from one inhabitant of educated Hampstead to another. The writer, who had lived though the war in England, wrote that he had never known morale in the country so low.
3. Article on A State within the State, The Observer, October 26 1975. This was four days after his death and is presented in Tomlin’s anthology as evidence that “Toynbee’s mastery of historical analogy remained with him until the last”. The Observer introduces it as “this last article [...] before his death”. But it cannot have been written after his stroke in August 1974 – which begs the question why it was presented thus. Perhaps it was about to be printed and withheld because of his illness. Its reference to Mr Healey’s budget must be to his first budget in March 1974.
4. In Morton’s incomplete list of articles sent to the Observer Foreign News Service for syndication here and there around the world, we have The English Sickness (1966) and The Second Battle of Britain, about the 1972 coal miners’ strike (1972).
I think he would have welcomed Thatcher, with reservations. He loathed the attitude to work of the trade unions. Thatcher introduced legislation to limit their powers and beat the miners in the endgame, the 1984-85 strike. Heath had been brought down by the miners’ strikes of 1972 and ’74.
He welcomes the Welfare State in its original conception, but would have despised the dependency culture. He believed in self-reliance and thrift. His sympathy for his rural Yorkshire neighbours’ reaction to proto-underclass-sounding city visitors in the late ’30s who
“don’t know how to cook and [...] don’t know how to sew and [...] don’t know how to cure a ham; and [...] can’t even sit at home and talk, because they have nothing in their heads to talk about”
would have been shared by Thatcher in her reminiscing-about-Grantham mode. The reform of the welfare state, which Cameron is now tackling, is Thatcher’s unfinished business.
His reservations would not have come from snobbery. But he might have been torn between some of this and a compassionate social conscience, which his uncle, Arnold Toynbee, the economic historian, had had in rich measure and which his own granddaughter, the very unThatcherite Polly Toynbee, would inherit.
He had an equally low opinion of the standard of universal education that Britain had achieved since 1870. The Yorkshire countrywoman’s
view was a tragic commentary upon the social effects of our present half-baked system of Universal Education.
The popular press degraded people.
The bread of Universal Education is no sooner cast upon the waters of social life than a shoal of sharks rises from the depths and devours the children’s bread [footnote: Matt xv 26] under the philanthropists’ eyes. In the educational history of England, for example, the dates speak for themselves. Universal compulsory gratuitous public instruction was inaugurated in this country in A.D. 1870; [footnote: The system of universal direct compulsion was not made complete until 1880, and the practical establishment of free education not until 1891.] the Yellow Press was invented some twenty years later – as soon as the first generation of children from the national schools had come into the labour market and acquired some purchasing power – by a stroke of irresponsible genius which had divined that the educational philanthropist’s labour of love could be made to yield the newspaper-king a royal profit.
So did advertising. So did nearly all manifestations of modern popular culture in Britain. He disliked the professionalisation of sport. Television was
Not everything was bad. He liked the hippies. But
“Recreation” in the present-day Western sense has always seemed to me to be an unhealthy regression to childishness. I have therefore despised it, and I believe I have been right. But does not this judgement commit me to condemning, with it, my own trick of keeping myself preoccupied by a continuous agenda of work all round the clock? This discomfort that I am feeling now that my half-century-long agenda is at an end suggests that, for me, this was serving the same perverse purpose as the infantile philistine’s radio and television. It was making it possible for me to avert my mind from “other business” [spiritual business, and looking inward] from which I shrink [...].
Thatcher achieved her reforms at the cost of a certain barbarising of society. Wasn’t she a kind of Diocletian?
Nowadays we don’t think of the welfare state as an “exhilarating enterprise”, we think of it as a social and fiscal problem. We don’t think of the French as hard-working either.
The problem for Britain now is: what is the next great enterprise? The fig-leaf on the world stage of the great liar Tony Blair was to “punch above our weight”. It was a Conservative, Douglas Hurd, who had first used the metaphor, in 1993 (I am not saying it is an impossible thing to do). The Yorkshirewoman was right. The entire challenge is to develop private, and civic, life. Ecological and other change will follow from that.
If that article were to be written today, “education” would have to be mentioned in place of “Welfare State” and “challenge of creating a stable, well-integrated multicultural society” in place of “Commonwealth”. We encouraged immigration to give ourselves a shot in the arm. We showed more enthusiasm in internalising our empire than in merging ourselves with Europe.
Morale is sometimes high during a war and collapses after it. That had happened to England by 1979, whatever Toynbee says about making festivals instead of funerals. Strikes offered a kind of perpetuation of the feeling of heightened living, as if we had become addicted to that in 1940. The Ealing comedies (1947-57) were in large part a celebration of mediocrity. The Suez fiasco in 1956 humiliated the ruling class. (In the same year, the literary establishment suffered a collapse of credibility with the Colin Wilson affair, in which Philip Toynbee was one of the duped.)
A superficial prosperity allowed the mock-Edwardian Macmillan to assure the working class that they had “never had it so good”. The stranglehold of the trade unions became tighter under Wilson, Heath and Callaghan. Middle-class morale picked up under Thatcher. Some sections of the industrial working class suffered from her policies and haven’t forgiven her.
BBC story today about a return to “east of Suez”, from which Britain had supposedly completed its withdrawal in 1971.
Young, possibly homeless, man on Great Russell Street, central London; photograph by Nicola Albon, posted February 21 2012 on her excellent blog Slice of London Life; copyright, used with permission; click for better resolution
Saving England, Encounter, Vol 18, No 1, January 1962
A Study of History, Vol IX, OUP, 1954
A Study of History, Vol IV, OUP, 1939
Gropings in the Dark, essay, September 1973, in An Historian’s Approach to Religion, second edition (previously unpublished), with new Preface, May 1978, by Veronica Toynbee, OUP, 1979, posthumous
Experiences, OUP, 1969
P.T.: You rather like bleak Middle-Eastern scenery, don’t you?
A.T.: Yes. The Mediterranean and the Middle East. I like that stark, bare, rather severe scenery: the hard lines and simple colours, like the Umbrian School of Painting – or the Pre-Raphaelites.
P.T.: And yet, where you live, in Westmorland, it could hardly be more unlike that.
A.T.: Yes, very watery, and beautiful, too, in its own way, but my feeling is really for the other kind of scenery.
Pietro Perugino, Pietà con San Girolamo e Santa Maria Maddalena, Perugia, National Gallery of Umbria; the hard lines may come from landscape, but aren’t limited to it in paintings, nor is Umbria especially stark
With Philip Toynbee, Comparing Notes, A Dialogue across a Generation, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1963
The Authorized Version of the Bible, made in the reign of King James I, gives me, whenever I read it or hear it being read, an intimation of the divine presence informing our fragment of a mysterious Universe. The effect of a diction that is archaic yet at the same time familiar is more like that of music than like that of ordinary speech. It pierces through the Intellect and plays directly upon the Heart.
A Study of History, Vol X, OUP, 1954
When, as a child, I used to come home from Kensington Gardens, on winter evenings, after dark, across the bridge leading from Westbourne Terrace to Upper Westbourne Terrace over the Great Western Railway, a palaeotechnic arc light was mounted on a tall standard, overlooking the bridge, to illuminate the marshalling yard below; and, as I passed by, I used to be fascinated by the blue flame flickering between the two black carbon points. Long afterwards, when I was ruminating on the mysterious process through which spiritual illumination arises out of schism in the Soul and in Society, a vivid memory of my early impression of the arc light came to the aid of my imagination.
A Study of History, Vol X, OUP, 1954
“Any man of forty who is endowed with moderate intelligence has seen – in the light of the uniformity of Nature – the entire Past and Future.” [Footnote: Aurelius, Marcus: Meditations, Book IX, chap. 2 [...]. Marcus’s melancholy view of Human Life was brought home to the writer by two repetitive experiences – one consummated when he was fifty-one and the other when he was fifty-seven. One day in May 1940, as he was approaching the corner of the Cornmarket and George Street in Oxford, his eye caught a poster in a newspaper-vendor’s hand announcing: “Liége falls: Forts held impregnable smashed by German guns”, and, for an instant, he was at a loss to know whether he was living in A.D. 1940 or A.D. 1914, because, at the same corner in August 1914, he had been given the same shock by a poster displaying the same words. His second experience of the kind occurred on a day in April 1946, when, as the official train carrying the British Delegation to the Peace Conference of Paris halted at a point between Calais Harbour and Calais Town, it occurred to him that this was the point where the Delegation had been given lunch when they had been travelling this way on this train on a day in December, 1918. Looking out of the railway-carriage window to identify the building, he found that this time it had been rased to the ground.]
A Study of History, Vol X, OUP, 1954
P.T.: Have you ever talked to the real fire-eaters, to any of the Pentagon generals?
A.T.: Well now, I was once invited to give a talk in the Pentagon to a roomful of staff colonels, and the wife of the then Secretary for War got up and attacked me for saying that we ought to recognise China. She was a real fire-eater. She had no business to be there, I suppose, but she didn’t hesitate to throw her – or perhaps it was her husband’s – weight about in the presence of all those distinguished professionals. I got a horrible feeling when I went into the Secretary for War’s office. It was full of little cardboard models of missiles. They were all over the tables and chairs and everywhere, and he was delighting in them – like a child surrounded by its toys. Now that was alarming.
In Britain a Minister of Defence separate from the prime minister replaced the Secretary of State for War (office established 1794; the “War Office”) in the cabinet in 1946, but the office survived as a non-cabinet post. It was abolished in 1964, along with that of First Lord of the Admiralty and Secretary of State for Air, and the cabinet minister was restyled Secretary of State for Defence.
Nixon visited China in 1972. The US recognised China on January 1 1979. Russia and China had been diverging ideologically since 1956. The Sino-Soviet split came into the open in 1961 and was never repaired.
With Philip Toynbee, Comparing Notes, A Dialogue across a Generation, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1963
Sir Herbert Maxwell, in his Sixty Years a Queen, “The Story of Her Majesty’s Reign, Illustrated Chiefly from the Royal Collections”, [footnote: London 1897, arranged and printed by Eyre & Spottiswoode, published by Harmsworth Bros.] revealed to me, in his panorama, the achievements of Victorian England.
One of the Acknowledgments in the tenth volume of the Study which were so comprehensively ridiculed by Trevor-Roper.
Toynbee had referred to the same book in the preceding volume.
“History is now at an end” was the inaudible slogan of the celebrations of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee in A.D. 1897, which made a vivid and lasting impression upon the present writer’s childish imagination; and “this history is therefore final” was the invisible motto on the title-page of a topical publication – Sixty Years a Queen [footnote: Maxwell, Bart., Sir H.: Sixty Years a Queen (London  [bracket in original], Harmsworth).] – which was the same child’s earliest source book of Western history in the nineteenth century.
“To me it is a matter of indifference whether he read some unimportant book in the library of the Athenæum Club or in No. 45 Pembroke Square, in the summer of 1907 or in September 1952.” Arnold Toynbee’s Millennium, Encounter, June 1957.
But he misses the point of those Acknowledgments. There is a larger humility and delight behind the apparent self-centredness. And Toynbee is a romantic. Moreover, if you have a critical mind, it doesn’t matter what you read, since all history is two histories anyway: the subject purportedly being handled and the viewpoint of the historian. The meaning is in the synthesis, as you, a further element, perceive it.
A Study of History, Vol X, OUP, 1954
A Study of History, Vol IX, OUP, 1954
J. A. Smith allowed me to educate myself by listening in to a spacious and fertile mind thinking aloud.
Smith was Jowett Lecturer of philosophy at Balliol when Toynbee was an undergraduate there.
A Study of History, Vol X, OUP, 1954
The outlook prevalent among people of the middle class in Great Britain at the earliest date in the last decade of the nineteenth century of the Christian Era at which the writer had begun to be aware of the psychological atmosphere of his social milieu was something that was best conveyed in caricature. In this milieu in the eighteen-nineties the feeling was:
“History is now at an end; this history is therefore final”;
[footnote: Sellar, W.C., and Yeatman, R. J.: 1066 and All That (London 1930, Methuen), p. viii.] and at this date this Weltanschauung was shared with an English middle class by the children of the German and the Northern American victors in the latest bout of Modern Western wars (gerebantur circa A.D. 1848-71). The beneficiaries from this aftermath of the General War of A.D. 1792-1815 had not, by then, begun to suspect, any more than their English “opposite numbers” had, that the Modern Age of Western history had been wound up only to inaugurate a post-Modern Age pregnant with imminent experiences that were to be at least as tragic as any tragedies yet on record. At the close of the nineteenth century even a German middle class, that was then still permitting itself to indulge in criminally irresponsible day-dreams of more frisch fröhlich six-weeks’ wars, was of the same mind as its North American and English “opposite numbers” in its workaday sober senses. In these three provinces of a post-Modern Western World an unprecedentedly prosperous and comfortable Western middle class was taking it as a matter of course that the end of one age of one civilization’s history was the end of History itself at least so far as they and their kind were concerned. They were imagining that, for their benefit, a sane, safe, satisfactory Modern Life had miraculously come to stay as a timeless present. “History is now at an end” was the inaudible slogan of the celebrations of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee in A.D. 1897, which made a vivid and lasting impression upon the present writer’s childish imagination; and “this history is therefore final” was the invisible motto on the title-page of a topical publication – Sixty Years a Queen [footnote: Maxwell, Bart., Sir H.: Sixty Years a Queen (London  [bracket in original], Harmsworth).] – which was the same child’s earliest source book of Western history in the nineteenth century. The assumption that the final product of those sixty years A.D. 1837-97 had come to stay was patently contrary to reason, considering that the pictures with which the text of Sixty Years a Queen was copiously illustrated presented a fascinatingly fast-moving pageant of change in every department of life, from Technology to Dress, in which change could clothe itself in visual form. In A.D. 1952 it was manifest in retrospect, even to the dullest eye, that this visual evidence had portended, not a perpetuation of the fleeting circumstances of late-nineteenth-century English middle-class life, but a revolutionary transformation of the ephemeral Victorian scene along the grim lines actually followed by the course of History within the next half-century. An oracular foreboding of the future was, indeed, uttered at the time by the Subconscious Psyche through an incongruous poetic medium. Yet Rudyard Kipling’s Recessional made little impression on the contemporaries of a Late Victorian poet who had found himself writing these ominous lines at an imperious Muse’s dictation. In the United Kingdom, as in Germany and in the Northern United States, the complacency of a post-Modern Western bourgeoisie remained unshaken till the outbreak of the first post-Modern general war in A.D. 1914.
English middle-class Conservatives for whom the Millennium had already arrived, and English middle-class Liberals for whom it lay only just round the corner, were, of course, aware that the English working class’s share in the middle class’s economic prosperity was shockingly small, and that British subjects in most of the colonies and dependencies of the United Kingdom were not enjoying a self-government that was the privilege of their fellow subjects in the United Kingdom itself and in a few other dominions of the British Crown; but these political and economic inequalities were discounted by Liberals as being something remediable and by Conservatives as being something inevitable. Citizens of the United States at the North were similarly aware, for their part, that their own economic prosperity was not shared by their fellow-citizens at the South, and that the fathers of these Southern contemporaries of theirs had seceded from the Union and had been brought back into it only by the force majeure of the North’s crushing victory over the South in a terrible civil war. Citizens of the German Reich were aware that the inhabitants of a “Reichsland” annexed from France after her crushing defeat in the Franco-Prussian War of A.D. 1870-1 were still French at heart and that the rest of a French nation which had not yet ceased to be a Great Power was still unreconciled to the amputation of the ceded departments. At the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries France was still entertaining thoughts of a revanche, and the subject population in Alsace-Lorraine was still dreaming the same dream of an eventual liberation as other subject populations in Slesvik, Poland, Macedonia, and Ireland. These dissatisfied contemporaries of a sated German, British, and North American bourgeoisie were nursing national grievances and national aspirations which did not permit them to acquiesce in a comfortable belief that “History” was “at an end”; indeed they could not have continued, as they did continue, to keep alight the flickering flame of a forlorn hope if they had succumbed to a Weltanschauung which, for them, would have spelled, not security, but despair. Yet their unwavering confidence that a, to them, intolerable established régime must be borne away, sooner or later, by Time’s “ever rolling stream” made little impression on the torpid imagination of “the Ascendancy”. “As a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so he openeth not his mouth”; [footnote: Isa. liii. 7.] and, though “the Ascendancy” was under a delusion in mistaking for an intimation of consent a silence that was inspired by the watchword “N’en parlons jamais, y pensons toujours”, [footnote: The watchword suggested for the guidance of members of the rising generation in France, on the morrow of her loss of Alsace-Lorraine in A.D. 1871, by a French statesman of an older generation (? Paul Déroulède).] [unusual question mark ... it seems to have been Gambetta who said this] there was in A.D. 1897 no living man or woman, even among the most sanguine-minded prophets of a nationalist or a socialist revolution, who dreamed that a demand for national self-determination was going to break up the Hapsburg, Hohenzollern, and Romanov empires and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland within the next twenty-five years, and going to spread, within another twenty-five years, from a few sore spots in Western Europe and in Orthodox Christendom to the uttermost parts of the Old World, or that a demand for social democracy was going to spread from the urban working class in a few precociously industrialized provinces of the Western World to the peasantry of Mexico and China. Gandhi (natus A.D. 1869) and Lenin (natus A.D. 1870) were then still unknown names; and the word “Communism” then commemorated a lurid event in the past that had been the last eruption of History’s now extinct volcano. This ominous outbreak of savagery in a Parisian underworld in A.D. 1871 was written off by optimistic post-Modern Western minds as an abnormal atavistic reaction to the shock of a startling military disaster, and there was no discernible fear of the recrudescence of a conflagration that had been smothered now for longer than a quarter of a century under a bourgeois Third Republic’s wet blanket. In 1897 a Western bourgeois gentilhomme’s sleep was not being seriously disturbed by prophetic nightmares.
Victorian pennies were current until 1971, the year Britain completed its withdrawal from most of its bases east of Suez
A Study of History, Vol IX, OUP, 1954
“I thought Arnold [...] a rare fascinator [...].”
Jessica Mitford on meeting him in San Francisco in November 1967. In Faces of Philip: A Memoir of Philip Toynbee, Heinemann, 1984.
My Mother’s account of her conversation with the disgruntled custodian of the deserted royal palace at Hanover, when she visited it during her stay in Germany in A.D. 1885, made me realize, even as a child, that all was not well under the surface in Prussia-Germany.
We are told no more about this conversation. The palace was deserted because Prussia had annexed Hanover in 1866. The Kingdom of Hanover became the Prussian province of Hanover.
From 1708 to 1803, Hanover had been an Electorate, technically the Electorate of Brunswick-Lüneburg, informally the Electorate of Hanover. The first Elector, George, became King of Great Britain in 1714.
In 1813, after the Napoleonic Wars, George III was restored to his Hanoverian territories. In October 1814 they were erected into a Kingdom of Hanover at the Congress of Vienna. The Congress demanded a territorial exchange between Hanover and Prussia in which Hanover increased its area substantially. The personal union with the United Kingdom ended in 1837, with the accession of Queen Victoria, because the Salic Law in Hanover prevented a female from inheriting the title if there was any surviving male heir. William IV’s brother Ernst August became the Hanoverian king.
In the United Kingdom, a male took precedence only over his own sisters. The new Act of Settlement being discussed in 2011 will end even that precedence if it is passed. If the Salic Law had applied in England in 1837, we would have had a King Ernest. He died a few weeks after the close of the Great Exhibition.
Queen Victorian was, nevertheless, a Hanoverian. Her successor, Edward VII, was not: he belonged to the line of his father, Prince Albert, Saxe-Coburg and Gotha.
Ernst August had been created Duke of Cumberland and Teviotdale and Earl of Armagh in 1799. His grandson the 3rd Duke and Earl, the son of the last King of Hanover, George (or Georg) V, had the great Hanoverian (not originally English) delicacy, Cumberland Sauce, named after him, but was deprived of his British peerages for having sided with Germany during the First World War.
The Schloss zu Herrenhausen circa 1890-1905, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division. It was destroyed during the Second World War.
A Study of History, Vol X, OUP, 1954
How can a sacrament that is thus indissolubly associated with the regional diet of Homo Mediterraneus be expected to serve as a means of grace for the rice-eating majority of Mankind, in continents where the vine does not grow, and in archipelagos that know no name for bread? [Footnote: The writer of this Study vividly remembers how forcibly his own provincialism was borne in upon him when – landing in Japan in the autumn of A.D. 1929, and making his way up country from Nara to Koya San, the Mahayanian Olympus – he found himself compelled to ask for an unobtainable form of food in Portuguese, because, in the Japanese language, there was no indigenous word for “bread”.]
The loan word was and is pan (パン), from pão. Portuguese wine was chintashu (珍陀酒), combining tinto, red, whence chinta, and shu (酒), liquor. Nowadays the word is wain (ワイン). (There were no olives in Japan either, or tomatoes.) Rice is the staple food of about half the world’s population, but perhaps not of the majority.
A Study of History, Vol VII, OUP, 1954
I remember, at the beginning of a university term during the Bosnian crisis of 1908-9, [the historian] Professor L. B. Namier, then an undergraduate at Balliol and back from spending a vacation at his family home just inside the Galician frontier of Austria, saying to us other Balliol men, with (it seemed to us) a portentous air: “Well, the Austrian army is mobilized on my father’s estate and the Russian army is just across the frontier, half-an-hour away.” It sounded to us like a scene from The Chocolate Soldier, but the lack of comprehension was mutual, for a lynx-eyed Central European observer of international affairs found it hardly credible that these English undergraduates should not realize that a stone’s-throw away, in Galicia, their own goose, too, was being cooked.
In a later book, Toynbee places this incident several years later.
Lewis Namier had been born Ludwik Bernsztajn vel Niemirowski in 1888 in Russian-controlled Poland, to non-practising Jewish parents. His father (unlike him) idolised the Hapsburgs and acquired an estate across the border in Austrian Poland, ie Galicia.
At Balliol, where Namier arrived in 1908, he was known as Bernstein. In 1910 he changed his name to Lewis Bernstein Naymier and in 1913 anglicised it further to Namier. Toynbee, rightly or wrongly, calls him Bernstein in 1912-13.
In my picture, Eastern Europe was still a terra incognita, though regions that were far more remote from England – for instance, India, China, and Malaya – already meant something to me, thanks to my education by Uncle Harry and by Cousin Fred. In this, I was typical of my generation and my kind in England; and most of Bernstein’s and my contemporaries at Balliol persisted in their state of invincible ignorance about Eastern Europe till they were overtaken by the outbreak of war in August 1914. They failed to profit by the opportunity of learning about Bernstein’s world at first hand from Bernstein himself because they were allergic to him and therefore to his homeland. They did not take him seriously, and they therefore could not recognize that his world, too, was real.
In the last academic year but one before the outbreak of the First World War in August 1914, Bernstein was still at Balliol, while I was back there again as a don. This was the year of the two Balkan wars. In one of that year’s vacations – I forget whether it was at Christmas 1912 or at Easter 1913 – Bernstein had gone home to visit his family, and he came back to Oxford looking worried. “The international situation is very serious,” he reported to us. “The Austrian Army is mobilized on my father’s estate, and the Russian Army is mobilized just across the frontier, only twenty minutes’ walk away. A European war is just round the corner now.” Bernstein was given no chance of enlarging on his grave theme. At the words “European war”, most of the young Englishmen whom Bernstein was addressing in Balliol front quad burst out laughing, as the Athenians had laughed when St. Paul, in his address to them on the Areopagus, came to the words “resurrection from the dead”. Too good to be true! Ruritania was running true to form! As entertaining as a novel of Anthony Hope’s! Ruritania? But what about Utopia? Certainly, Bernstein’s world and the laughers’ world could not both be real; for they were mutually incompatible. Which of the two would prove to have been the reality and which would prove to have been the mirage? It was Bernstein’s world, not the laughers’ world, whose reality was vindicated in the event. Within three years of this fantastic conversation in the quad, half of those unfortunate laughers were dead.
The English film director Ken Russell died yesterday. The Rainbow, after DH Lawrence, is no longer on YouTube, so I can’t link to its wonderfully-directed vignette of a pre-1914 view of war (I don’t think it’s in the book) where Ursula and the soldier Anton wander into Winifred and Uncle Tom’s wedding party.
Everyone there is tipsy, older and foolish. Ursula and Anton are sober, young, post-coital and somehow pre-foolish. Ursula’s father and the grinning Tom improvise a dance whose choreography includes firing an imaginary pistol at each other. As the dance ends, Will collapses to the floor and Tom plunges an imaginary bayonet into him.
The novel is set during the Boer War, but was published in 1915.
Civilization on Trial, OUP, 1948
Acquaintances, OUP, 1967
Sligger Urquhart and Sikh, Balliol, c 1914; Balliol College Archives, FF Urquhart, Album 7; photograph © Balliol College, Oxford; used with permission
Mr Samgrass in Brideshead Revisited, Sillery in A Dance to the Music of Time and Irwin in The History Boys are cited by Jacob Heilbrunn as “overweening” fictional historians in a review of Adam Sisman, Hugh Trevor-Roper: The Biography, Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 2010, in the The National Interest, September-October.
The model for Samgrass (All Souls) is usually said to be Maurice Bowra (Wadham), but he must have had elements of FF (“Sligger”) Urquhart, the snobbish homosexual Dean of Balliol from 1918 to 1934, in him. Some have suggested Isaiah Berlin (All Souls), who was perhaps more of a social snob than Bowra. It is impossible for people now to know what Bowra’s social reputation was based on. The best that can be said of his reported jokes is that one had to be there. But the impression he made on generations of undergraduates and others was deep.
Anthony Powell (Balliol) was a pupil of Urquhart, which Waugh (Hertford) was not. He also knew Bowra, I think, better than Waugh did. He placed Sillery in a setting based on Urquhart’s salon (is a college named?), but denied drawing on him otherwise. He also denied modelling him on Bowra. He seems, rather, to have used Sir Ernest Barker, who wasn’t an Oxford man.
The model for Alan Bennett’s Irwin (teaches at a fictional school in Sheffield, but an Oxford man) seems to have been Niall Ferguson (Jesus and elsewhere).
CRMF Cruttwell, dean of Hertford, gained a kind of immortality by having various dubious and very unacademic characters in several of Waugh’s pre-war novels named after him. Sniggs and Postlethwaite in Decline and Fall are too sketchy to be based on anyone.
Sligger had been a model for Walter Pater’s “imaginary portrait” Emerald Uthwart, published in The New Review in 1892. Waugh even acted him in a silent film, The Scarlet Woman, that he made as an undergraduate, and he draws a portrait of him in his biography of Ronald Knox. Horace Slughorn in the Harry Potter books may be distantly related to him. For Toynbee, Urquhart was the archetypal college-bound historian. The prospect of his own career taking such a path horrified him.
I mentioned Urquhart in a post called Balliol, Trinity Term 1914, one of the better posts here. There are now over 2,000 photos by or of him in the Balliol archive at Flickr (Urquhart albums 1, 6, 7, 8 and 9, more than when I did the earlier post), some taken in Oxford, some abroad, often at the chalet which his father had built in the valley of Chamonix, to which Sligger brought many visitors. It became known as the Chalet des Anglais. There are a few at Balliol College Archives. “Every available inch of mantelpiece and walls [in Urquhart’s rooms] was covered with photographs of previous generations of undergraduates”: Humphrey Carpenter, The Brideshead Generation.
If the overweening Trevor-Roper has not yet been the model for a fictional character, then one day he will be. Alan Bennett improbably acted him in the 1991 ITV half-comic drama-documentary about the Hitler diaries fiasco, Selling Hitler.
Toynbee was not a social climber or snob, but married into the family which owned Castle Howard. As an undergraduate at Oxford, he came to know the Regius Professor of Greek (the chair was at Christ Church), Gilbert Murray, who was married to Mary Howard (1865-1956), daughter of the Earl of Carlisle. In March 1910 he was invited to visit the family seat (Vanbrugh). Lady Mary’s parents were living, but the 9th Earl died in 1911, leaving the Dowager Countess (née Stanley) the head of the family. In September 1913 Toynbee married the Murrays’ daughter Rosalind.
Rosalind’s alcoholic, left-leaning brother Basil is said to have been the model for Waugh’s anti-hero Basil Seal in Black Mischief and Put Out More Flags. And Nancy Mitford writes to Evelyn Waugh on September 12 1964: “Ph Toynbee [Toynbee’s son] [...] seems to be a re-incarnation of old Baz” (Charlotte Mosley, editor, The Letters of Nancy Mitford and Evelyn Waugh, Hodder and Stoughton, 1996).
Trevor-Roper’s snobberies were rampant, but they did not prevent him, as they should have, from mocking Toynbee thus (The Prophet, review of McNeill’s biography of Toynbee, New York Review of Books, October 12 1989):
“There was a good chance, given the countess’s power and whims, that this favorite granddaughter might ultimately inherit Castle Howard and the great estate which went with it. Then the financial circumstances of the Toynbees would change. They would live in aristocratic grandeur, entertaining the great and writing immortal works.”
Toynbee and Rosalind joined the Labour Party in 1918 (they abandoned it around 1922; Toynbee would vote Liberal thereafter). The Khaki election and the eclipse of the Liberal Party were “an intolerable and unexpected turn of the screw” for the Countess. “Those who had abandoned the Liberal cause and joined with Labour counted as nothing less than traitors in her eyes; and, of course, Toynbee and Rosalind were among the guilty.” Quotations from McNeill.
The Countess would write to him on May 2 1919 and rail against “the great catastrophe of the election”. “And after all what have you to do with Castle Howard? This beautiful place so lovable for those who accept it with a simple affection and clear conscience – but such a jarring false note, such a mockery for those who have joined the ranks of the people who have declared war on such as we, who dwell in great rooms filled with private galleries of books and pictures. Is it not anathema to your comrades? Then why come here?”
May 6: “I understand that you and Rosalind enrolled yourselves in the Labour Party last winter: that party is fighting hard the Liberals (sic) and will smash us if they can. … I have been an intense passionate lover of my Liberal creed and party all my life long. … If I were to have as my guests … those who belong to a party that seeks to compass our destruction, there could be no vivid, helpful, comforting talk for me. We should have to keep off political subjects and that would make intercourse very unreal and dry and very different from our old breezy, happy times.”
One is reminded of Forster. Howards End, no less. Who would inherit England? If Castle Howard could be called England.
The Toynbees never did inherit Castle Howard. The teetotal Dowager, who died in 1921, left it to her teetotal daughter Mary, not to her sons or to the grandson, the 11th Earl (1895-1963), who had inherited the earldom in 1912; but the Murrays declined the inheritance. It passed to the Dowager’s only surviving son, Geoffrey Howard (1877-1935), in whose family it has remained. Toynbee and his wife got a smaller house next door, Ganthorpe Hall, and do not appear to have resented the Murrays for their decision.
Castle Howard was made into Brideshead in both the good eleven-hour 1980 ITV adaptation and bad 2008 film adaptation of Waugh’s novel. The description of Brideshead doesn’t match Castle Howard exactly (there is a dome at Castle Howard, but no columns), but it is close enough.
The film is bad because, like many others, it substitutes vague atmospherics for drama and acting. Emma Thompson as Lady Marchmain is a kind of short-cut and conveys nothing of the class or period. Matthew Goode is a vacuous Charles Ryder. But the main error is that Julian Jarrold has decided that the story is about “guilt”. “Catholic guilt.” Sebastian’s problem may be “guilt”, but “guilt” is not part of Christian moral thinking and was not in Waugh’s mind. Waugh’s theme was: “the operation of divine grace on a group of diverse but closely connected characters”.
Perhaps it is as well that Toynbee did not live permanently in Castle Howard or his
Ambition with a great screaming A
(letter to Robert Darbishire, January 30 1910) might have got out of hand. He might have seemed even more eccentric. Kenneth Clark wondered on television in a gallery in the Vatican whether “a single thought that has helped forward the human spirit has ever been conceived or written down in an enormous room”. He added in the book: “except, perhaps, in the reading room of the British Museum”.
Toynbee to Robert Darbishire, Saturday March 5 1910:
I am going off to-day week with Gilbert Murray to Castle Howard, a fenced city of his parents-in-law, somewhere in Yorkshire. I wonder if Lady Carlysle (is it so spelt?) will be in residence? – like Lady Mary, I am told, plus temperance, raised to the tenth power. It will be very amusing and delightful.
Sebastian drives Charles to Brideshead on a “cloudless” day in June 1923. Toynbee arrived on March 12 1910 in equally sunny, but colder, weather; but
The Sun makes up for all.
Earlier in the same letter to Darbishire:
It is a great and marvellous place, early 18th century style on the vast scale, with pictures and lakes and statues and libraries and all manner of things.
Lady Carlysle is obviously a mighty force, but not, perhaps, so formidable. Would though that I was less entirely at sea about politics [footnote: Lady Carlisle was intensely interested in social causes; cf. West, Gilbert Murray: A Life, pp. 25-27.] – domestic matters, I mean, for I only read the foreign sheet of the Times, while police courts, cabinet crises, football leagues, and such “own dirty linen” I eschew. However, I shall doubtless know plenty about home politics before I go away. Do you like Canalettos? They cover all the walls in the room where we eat [Toynbee on Canaletto] – I won’t call it the dining room, for there are at least twenty like it. There are also Wattses [he describes a Watts in Experiences], and crowds of nice solid books of the eighty years ago kind.
Altogether, it is more peaceful, and less of a “fearful joy” [Gray, Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College] than I expected.
In 1913 he would spend his honeymoon there.
1980 music by Geoffrey Burgon.
Apropos the picture at the top: Balliol had Indian connections. In 1853 entry to the Indian Civil Service was opened through a competitive exam. Many applicants passed through Balliol. Toynbee’s uncle, the original Arnold, had been tutor there in charge of ICS candidates. In the early twentieth century (or before?: the first Indian(s) at Oxford had arrived in 1871) Balliol admitted a number of Indian and other Asian students, which strengthened the contrast between Balliol and its more socially conservative rival Trinity. The Boden Chair of Sanskrit (established 1831) has been attached to Balliol since 1880.
Sligger and friend, c 1914; Balliol College Archives, FF Urquhart, Album 7; photograph © Balliol College, Oxford; used with permission
Christian B Peper, editor, An Historian’s Conscience, The Correspondence of Arnold J. Toynbee and Columba Cary-Elwes, Monk of Ampleforth, with a Foreword by Lawrence L Toynbee, OUP, by arrangement with Beacon Press, Boston, 1986, posthumous
Olaf Stapledon was older than Toynbee, but overlapped with him at Balliol (post on Balliol), where he read Modern History. A letter from Toynbee to Robert Darbishire of March 9 1913, published in the same volume as his correspondence with Columba Cary-Elwes, suggests that Toynbee was at least acquainted with him.
What follows comes from page images at Google Books, but I haven’t been able to read the rest to find out, from WHG Armytage, how close Stapledon’s examinations of future civilisations come to Toynbee’s of past and present ones. Stapledon seems to refer at one stage to an “Americanised world-state”, which fails “to discover fresh supplies of energy, which even in the Antarctic are becoming exhausted”. Armytage, who is described in various online pages as a eugenicist and published books on the history of education in England, refers to Last and First Men and A Story of the Near and Far Future as if they were separate books. I’ve corrected this.
Armytage in Yesterday’s Tomorrows: A Historical Survey of Future Societies, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1968:
“‘When your writers romance of the future,’ writes one of the ‘last men’ in his Last and First Men (1930), ‘they too easily imagine a progress toward some kind of Utopia, in which beings like themselves live in unmitigated bliss among circumstances perfectly suited to a fixed human nature. I shall not describe any such paradise. Instead, I shall record huge fluctuations of joy and woe, the results of changes not only in man’s environment but in his fluid nature.’ The ‘huge fluctuations’, on Olaf Stapledon’s time-scale, cover 2,000 million years – nothing less than a history of man from his own time to the destruction of the solar system. In Last and First Men: A Story of the Near and Far Future (1930), Last Men in London (1932) and Star-Maker (1937), Stapledon carried Darwinian ideas far further than Wells. His method of dealing with the future was analogous to what Arnold Toynbee was currently doing for the past – envisaging the rise and fall of many civilisations – races and species even. Like Toynbee, Stapledon is concerned with unsuccessful attempts; like Marx, he was also concerned to show the dialectical reaction of one civilisation on another. Like Bernal he envisaged migrations from the earth to other planets, in Stapledon’s case first to Venus, then to Neptune, but having gone through mutations of the Bernal kind, his final eighteenth race, appearing millions of years from now, being recognisably human again.”
Not this blog’s archives: collections of papers relating to Toynbee. I’ve added a list in the About section on the left.
Sir Giles Gilbert Scott, New Bodleian, Oxford, completed 1940
“[Toynbee] was an only son, obviously very talented, and he could not fail to know it: a doting mother and two admiring younger sisters saw to that. Throughout his life he depended on such support: ‘The absence of admiring females,’ says his biographer, ‘was a severe deprivation for him.’ Their adulation ensured self-satisfaction and a certain insensitivity to the opinions and feelings of others. These characteristics, originating in the family, were not corrected by his education; for he became the prize pupil, in succession, of the two most famous academic forcing-houses in England, Winchester College and Balliol College, Oxford.
“The education provided there was the classical humanist education of the English governing class since the Renaissance. This education, whatever its value in the formation of character, had, by now, certain intellectual limitations. It was essentially literary. Not only did it exclude the study of science, it also stopped short of any serious understanding of its declared subject, the Greco-Roman world. The perfect pupil, on emerging from it, could read the Greek and Latin authors with ease, imitate their language with virtuosity, and absorb their ideals insofar as they could be made applicable to modern life. But his understanding of Antiquity would be limited to public events as represented by ancient writers and as interpreted in a modern context. Understanding of Antiquity in its own right, in its own context, as undertaken in the eighteenth century by Bentley and Gibbon, was no longer fashionable. It had been left to the Germans, whose immersion in such details was often regarded with condescension. The most famous Greek scholar in England, in Toynbee’s youth, was Gilbert Murray, who saw Euripides and Aristophanes as allies in his own battles for the liberal causes of Edwardian England. Toynbee, who won all the prizes at Winchester and Balliol, was naturally integrated into this tradition, and although he would afterward react against it, he would never escape from its limitations.”
“That training had been centered on two relatively short periods of Greek and Roman history: the two periods of greatest literary achievement. That meant, for Greece, the fifth century BC, the age of the great dramatists and Pericles, culminating in the defeat of Athens in the Peloponnesian War, as described by Thucydides, and, for Rome, the last century of the Republic and the beginning of the Empire, the age of Cicero and Lucretius, Horace and Virgil.”
Hugh Trevor-Roper, The Prophet, review of William H McNeill, Arnold J. Toynbee, A Life, New York, OUP, 1989, New York Review of Books, October 12 1989.
“Friends, who set forth at our side,
Falter, are lost in the storm.
We, we only are left! –
With frowning foreheads, with lips
Sternly compress’d, we strain on [...]
On, to the City of God.”
Matthew Arnold, from Rugby Chapel. Never, as far as I know, quoted by Toynbee, but it could be his epitaph.
Click above on the name of the post if the image does not appear.
Balliol has placed some of its archives on Flickr. This is the diary of an undergraduate, a Classical Exhibitioner from Manchester Grammar School, in his third year of reading Greats in the summer term of 1914. (Use full-screen, not enlarged, mode.)
His name is Alfred Balmforth, born February 2 1892 and the son of WA Balmforth, editor of the Manchester Evening News. He came up to Balliol as a Classical Exhibitioner in 1911.
It was the last term of peace, but not Balmforth’s last, since Greats (Literae Humaniores, classics and philosophy) was and is a four-year course. The diary covers the whole term and runs from Friday April 24 to Monday June 22 1914. The following Sunday a nineteen year-old Bosnian Serb assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria.
At the beginning of the diary Balmforth sees CG Stone (1886-1976), Robert Gibson (died 1915) and Toynbee “about work for term”. Toynbee tells us in Experiences that Gibson was a junior fellow with him, while AD Lindsay (1879-1952) was the senior Greats don. He does not mention Stone. Balmforth does not mention Lindsay.
According to the Balliol archive, Balmforth’s tutors were Cyril Bailey (1871-1957), AW Pickard-Cambridge (1873-1952) and Arnold Toynbee. But Balmforth never mentions Bailey (unless I have missed a reference). He mentions “Picker” on a couple of occasions, but not as a teacher, and Toynbee often. Bailey had visited Winchester while Toynbee was still there and persuaded him to apply to Balliol, rather than New College, where most Wykehamists were expected to go.
The Master from 1907 to ’16 was James Leigh Strachan-Davidson (1843-1916). Lindsay was the next Master but one after him. AL Smith (1850-1924), about whom Toynbee writes in Experiences, held the office in between.
AD Lindsay had encouraged Toynbee to become a don and became his close friend, though the friendship ended when Toynbee, to Lindsay’s displeasure, resigned from his fellowship in December 1915. He had left in April that year to do war work in London.
Lindsay was socially progressive and, in McNeill’s words, “intent on disrupting the alliance of aristocracy and talent that Jowett had paintakingly created at Balliol”. His “version of Bergsonian evolutionary thinking helped to wean Toynbee away from his inherited Anglican faith”.
Balmforth’s reading: Mommsen, Boswell, Rosetti (Dante Gabriel), Descartes, Palgrave (presumably Francis), James Stephens, Zimmern, Plutarch, Xenophon, Aristotle, Hesiod, Sterne, How and Wells’ Commentary on Herodotus, Swift, Swinburne, Appian, John Morley, Aucassin and Nicolette, Richard de Bury, Sir Philip Sidney. You don’t have the impression that it weighs heavily on him or that he’s a swot.
Essays for Toynbee: Athenian constitutional history from Solon to 462, Spartan history to 550, Persia to 479, the Athenian Empire, Pericles’s policy from 443, the Boeotian constitution.
Sports: tennis and golf. He isn’t a hearty. Cricket as spectator. Punting. Eights Week: “Oxford full of sisters & cousins & aunts.”
Collections, discussions about life. Balmforth has an eye for landscape and flowers (“cowslips in many of the fields & ladysmock all along the hedges”), and an interest in music, though his taste is conservative (no time for Scriabin). He eats at the Cadena Café occasionally. Goes to a cinema. “Toynbee said my Greek History essays had been first class,” he tells us at the end. It isn’t clear what he wants to do after coming down. Perhaps the Bar. There isn’t much about his inner life – and nothing at all about romance, sex or drink – but the more we parse a text such as this, the more it lives and reveals its secrets. Several references to Indians (discrimination, not on the part of Balmforth sv May 4). The only hints of war are some OTC parades.
On the first page he introduces us to two of his closest friends, whom he will see often during the term. The Balliol archive identifies them as “Humphrey Marmaduke Chaplin, 1892-1915 (Balliol 1911)” and “Gordon Morley Hewart, 1893-1915 (Balliol 1912)”. And to Robert Gibson. On the blank left-hand page opposite, Balmforth has written:
Lieut. 3rd (attached 2nd) Bn [ie Batallion] Cheshire Regt.
Killed in action in action in Flanders May 1915
Gordon M. Hewart
2nd Lieut. 6th Bn Lincolnshire Regt.
Killed in action at Suvla Bay, Gallipoli, August 1915.
Capt 3rd (attached 2nd) Bn King’s Own Scottish Borderers.
Killed in action in action in Flanders March 1915.”
He makes a similar note later on against a reference to an undergraduate called Rawsthorne.
Toynbee had read Greats at Balliol from 1907 to ’11. His scholarship was extended for a fifth year, to be spent abroad, as a result of his winning the Jenkins Prize. He chose to walk some 3,000 miles in Italy and Greece (mainly Greece). He returned as a junior don teaching Greek and Roman history in October 1912, as Balmforth was entering his second year. He was less than three years older than his pupil.
Letter of 1912, probably September 25, to his friend Robert Shelby Darbishire (1886-1949), whom he had met as an undergraduate, quoted in McNeill:
I am impatient to get started at Balliol and find out what the job really feels like. You were disillusioned about the dull men – cannot they be poked up? I will try while I am still enthusiastic, and not be cynical if I fail. … I suspect, though, that discharging large pouches of one’s mind for duty, which one has been so far rather painfully bottling up, is demoralising.
I am rapidly becoming at home in the other camp, of those who live for ever and ever and whose life changeth not, instead of those who come and pass. Sometimes it comes into my head that I may be doing this identical job when I am 59. The don crew are very friendly, and there are fewer fossils embedded among them than I had expected. But why need they fare so sumptuously? … I shall get myself made junior bursar, and feed them on bread and water. I want to smash it and melt the College plate withal. The hole (sic) [my sic] business is piggish. … That is why I run.
Apparently November 6:
My job in teaching history is to make people know a different life and civilisation from ours, from the bottom and with different openings for good. … If I can get my men inside the Greeks, mentally (though that is Sandie’s [Lindsay’s] job), physically and morally – with the imagination of limestone and pines and blueness thrown in – I shall have done a good work.
But only three of his fifteen pupils seemed to have any real enthusiasm.
I expound too much. I pour out stuff, trying to kindle their minds and put a living picture into them. One ought to take up what they have actually written and worry about that. Overheard in the quad: “What do you think of Toynbee?” “Oh, I think he is good.” “There is one thing. He talks to you so much himself, that you don’t have to do any talking.” So I must change my tactics. But it is good work teaching. … I don’t think I should become dried up and withered here. Meanwhile I shall get time enough to go on assimilating history, which is the driving force inside me now, as it has been for some years – nor do I see any signs of its abating. I want knowledge because I want it.
His published correspondence (1937-74) with Columba Cary-Elwes is prefaced by a few very intimate letters to Darbishire.
Darbishire was half-American and returned to Kentucky in 1910, though he was with Toynbee for at least part of his subsequent Greek odyssey. He became a teacher. It is clear that there are more letters to Darbishire in the Bodleian. What we have in the Columba book makes one wish that they could be published.
June 13 1913:
When I got out of bed on Tuesday morning, I suddenly looked ahead and saw I could not live in College for ever like Sligger [...]. So I determined I would become a thorough master of this job, get made junior dean, become a trained teacher, and get a grip of history, and then do work like my Father’s or something where human life and sorrow comes in. I wrote to Zimmern and told him he must help me get a footing in some such work within the next half-dozen years [...].
“Something where human life and sorrow comes in.”
Toynbee’s father, Harry Valpy Toynbee (1861-1941), had been a social worker in the Charity Organisation Society from 1881 to 1908, before entering a mental hospital (he never returned to normal life).
Lindsay wrote to Toynbee during the spring examination period of either 1913 or ’14: “I don’t yet know what is going to happen to all our papers in Greats, but you ought to know that their history shows an immense improvement this year, both Greek and Roman, and considering what a middling lot they are, you are to be congratulated.” Quoted in McNeill.
Toynbee’s uncle and namesake, Harry’s brother, the economic historian and social worker Arnold Toynbee (1852-83), had studied political economy at Balliol from 1875 and after his graduation in 1878 became a tutor there in charge of candidates for the Indian Civil Service. He was made Bursar in 1881 and died aged thirty. He was a friend of Benjamin Jowett, the Master from 1870 to ’93. His Lectures on the Industrial Revolution in England: Public Addresses, Notes and Other Fragments, together with a Short Memoir by B. Jowett were published posthumously in 1884 and very widely read. Until at least 1934, when the first volume of A Study of History appeared, Arnold Toynbee meant him, not Arnold Joseph Toynbee.
Arnold Joseph Toynbee secured his first exemption from military service in October 1914 on the doubtful grounds of the dysentery that he had contracted more than two years earlier in Greece. Subsequent exemptions were on the grounds of his war work in London.
He left Balliol after Hilary Term 1915 to do that work, but retained his fellowship and its stipend until he resigned in December of that year (or until shortly afterwards). So his early Balliol years, to give them their widest bracket, were 1907-15. Later (in what year?) the college elected him to an honorary fellowship, which he held for life.
Toynbee left conventional academic life twice, the second time not voluntarily, when he was forced out of the Koraes chair of Modern Greek and Byzantine Language, Literature and History at King’s College, University of London in 1924 for having excessively pro-Turkish political views. His destination wasn’t charity work, but the British (from 1926 Royal) Institute of International Affairs, a half-way house between academia and public life.
He returned to Balliol during the Second World War. From the outbreak of war to June 1943 he was the head of the nearly 200-strong Foreign Research and Press Service, set up at his old college. The group – a redeployment of Chatham House – was required to provide accurate information on foreign affairs to any branch of the government on demand. He had done similar work during part of the previous war. In 1943 he returned to London to head a new Foreign Office Research Department which merged personnel from the Foreign Research and Press Service and the Foreign Office.
Balliol changed in Michaelmas Term 1914. Some of the older Fellows and a reduced student body carried on part of the academic life of the college. But Balliol’s premises, like those of most Oxford colleges, were largely given over to war work. Balliol hosted thousands of British and Commonwealth officer cadets on short training courses who were not members of Balliol or of the university.
The general war of 1914 overtook me expounding Thucydides to Balliol undergraduates reading for Literae Humaniores, and [...] suddenly my understanding was illuminated. The experience that we were having in our world now had been experienced by Thucydides in his world already. I was re-reading him now with a new perception – perceiving meanings in his words, and feelings behind his phrases, to which I had been insensible until I, in my turn, had run into that historical crisis that had inspired him to write his work. Thucydides, it now appeared, had been over this ground before. He and his generation had been ahead of me and mine in the stage of historical experience that we had respectively reached; in fact, his present had been my future. But this made nonsense of the chronological notation which registered my world as “modern” and Thucydides’ world as “ancient.” Whatever chronology might say, Thucydides’ world and my world had now proved to be philosophically contemporary. And, if this were the true relation between the Graeco-Roman and the Western civilizations, might not the relation between all the civilizations known to us turn out to be the same?
Crawley’s translation (1874):
“Thucydides, an Athenian, wrote the history of the war between the Peloponnesians and the Athenians, beginning at the moment that it broke out, and believing that it would be a great war and more worthy of relation than any that had preceded it. This belief was not without its grounds. The preparations of both the combatants were in every department in the last state of perfection; and he could see the rest of the Hellenic race taking sides in the quarrel; those who delayed doing so at once having it in contemplation. Indeed this was the greatest movement yet known in history, not only of the Hellenes, but of a large part of the barbarian world – I had almost said of mankind. For though the events of remote antiquity, and even those that more immediately preceded the war, could not from lapse of time be clearly ascertained, yet the evidences which an inquiry carried as far back as was practicable leads me to trust, all point to the conclusion that there was nothing on a great scale, either in war or in other matters.”
Balmforth got a First in Classical Moderations, the first main exam, in 1913 and a Second in Lit Hum finals in 1915.
In July 1915 he joined the 8th Manchester Regiment as a 2nd Lieutenant.
His 1914 summer diary is followed by a section, in the same notebook, called A week of the Army, Jan. 8th to Jan 15th 1916, No 7 Camp, Codford St Mary, Salisbury Plain. (What did he do between July 1915 and January 1916?) We get more than a week. It resumes on January 30 and continues until September 16.
Parades, inspections, route marches, reconnaissances. Codford was a training and transfer camp for tens of thousands of troops waiting to move to France, including many ANZAC troops. In 1916 it also became a depot for men who had been evacuated from the front line and were not fit to return.
In February-March he spends five weeks at the Staff College at Camberley. On April 9 he is relocated from Codford to Witley. He goes home to Manchester for Easter. He is still at Witley when the diary ends. At the many references to bad weather – “Tuesday, March 21. A day of almost continuous rain [...]” – our minds shift to Flanders.
But on Saturday July 1, the catastrophic first day of the Battle of the Somme, we get:
“Work on the Common in the morning – King still expected. Caught 2.30 from Godalming to Walton to stay with the Cowells. Tennis in the afternoon at Dr. Griffiths and a game of snooker in the evening at the Sangers’.”
On Sunday July 2:
“More tennis and pleasant lounging in the Garden. Returned to Camp at night.”
There is nothing afterwards to indicate what is happening.
In October 1916 he was sent to the front, attached to the 6th King’s Liverpool Regiment at Ypres. In April 1917 he became an Intelligence Officer and was made Captain. On July 31 1917 Alfred Balmforth was killed at St Julien, Ypres, “Wipers” to the British Tommy, aged twenty-five.
The “Sligger” whom Toynbee mentions as the typically college-bound academic in the passage I have quoted was the still-youthful Francis Fortescue Urquhart (1868-1934), the first Catholic fellow in Oxford since the Reformation. Until 1854, it had been necessary to subscribe to the Thirty-nine Articles of Religion in order to take a degree. After this bar was removed, Rome distrusted the Oxford Movement atmosphere sufficiently to issue a decree in 1867 forbidding Catholics to attend the university. This was not relaxed until 1895. Some Catholics came to Oxford despite the ban, including Urquhart. He remained at his school, Stonyhurst, to take an external London degree in Classics, and came up to Balliol as an exhibitioner for a second BA in modern history in 1890.
He lived in Balliol thereafter, holding office as junior dean (1896-1907), domestic bursar (1907-19) and dean (1918-34). Balliol online archive: “A conscientious but uninspiring tutor, his interests were more in art and architecture than literature or history, and he made no contributions of his own to historical scholarship. He took little part in university affairs except the development of the Oxford Catholic chaplaincy – he was instrumental in the appointment of his friend R. A. Knox as chaplain in 1926. Nevertheless, he became one of the best-known and most warmly remembered dons of his time. His main role, recalled L. E. Jones, ‘was social, not pedagogic … he appeared to have endless leisure for loitering in the Quad by day and gossiping in his rooms by night’.”
“The nickname Sligger, by which he was generally known after about 1892, was derived from ‘sleek one’ through ‘slicker’.” Over 700 photographs taken by (and occasionally of) Sligger are on Flickr. They have been placed there without any background or explanations; and why FF Urquhart Album 7? Many are obviously from the war years, but few are dated. A small selection is also on the Balliol Archives website. Some are very evocative. You want to know each of the subjects.
Peace and War by Sligger: not Balliol, but Merton from Christ Church Meadow; the Balliol archive at Flickr implies, but doesn’t state, a date of Michaelmas Term, 1914; Balliol College Archives, FF Urquhart, Album 7; photograph © Balliol College, Oxford; used with permission
William H McNeill, Arnold J. Toynbee, A Life, New York, OUP, 1989 (first four extracts)
Christian B Peper, editor, An Historian’s Conscience, The Correspondence of Arnold J. Toynbee and Columba Cary-Elwes, Monk of Ampleforth, with a Foreword by Lawrence L Toynbee, OUP, by arrangement with Beacon Press, Boston, 1986, posthumous
Civilization on Trial, OUP, 1948
The Greek retreat after the Second Battle of İnönü (March 26-31 1921) in the Greco-Turkish War. From January to September 1921 Toynbee was a war correspondent for the Manchester Guardian.
From the bank above the road I commanded a marvellous view of kindly Olympus, the plain and town of Ainegöl, and the Nazyf Pasha heights on the horizon, eight hours’ march away. I sat there watching the immense procession and looking out for the mule which was carrying my knapsack – I could identify him because he was also carrying two deal folding tables belonging to the divisional staff.
As I watched, one of two oxen yoked to a cart just below me lay down deliberately in the road, and the whole file of carts, guns, and lorries halted behind him for miles. It was a dramatic act on the part of the ox, for there, far away on the road zigzagging down into the plain from Nazyf Pasha, I could see the dust raised by the Turkish cavalry as they came down at last in pursuit. In some circumstances an ox may decide the fate of an army, but the driver of this ox was more than a match for him. After kicking and prodding the animal with no result whatever, he stooped down, picked up its tail, and, to my amazement, started carefully parting the hairs. Then, assuming a ferocious expression, he dug his teeth into the tail flesh. Perhaps this was an ultima ratio for dealing with oxen which had been handed down in the man’s family for generations. Anyhow it worked. The ox got up with alacrity and walked on, the whole column followed, and I myself was caught up in a motor-car, whirled away to see the progress of the 3rd Division, and finally deposited in a hotel at Brusa at two o’clock next morning, after a twenty-three hours’ day.
Passage written at Bursa (he calls it Brusa) on April 5. It appeared in the Manchester Guardian on May 12.
The Western Question in Greece and Turkey, A Study in the Contact of Civilizations, Constable, 1922
Paradise Lost, when I discovered it and devoured it in three days before I was eight years old, instilled into my mind, without my understanding it, my first idea of a theodicy.
A Study of History, Vol X, OUP, 1954
The Walloon towns of Waterloo and Mons are less than thirty miles away from each other.
Anyone in any country affected by the First World War who was alive and grown-up at the time of its outbreak is likely to have felt that this was an epoch-making event. Someone who was just grown-up, and whose country was England, will have been particularly sensitive to this feeling. Like his elders, he could look back, with a grown-up participant’s eyes, on the life of a period that had now been abruptly and unexpectedly brought to an end; and, for English people, this period had been running, without any dramatic break, for almost twice as long as for the people of most other countries. For the English, August 1914 spelled the sudden end of a period of peace that they had been enjoying by then for all but a hundred years, since the last shot fired at the Battle of Waterloo. The breaches in this English century of peace had been minor disturbances that had not interrupted the even tenor of England’s life. On the other hand, in most other parts of the World there had been a decisive break, for good or evil, about half-way through that century’s course. France had suffered the débâcle and the Commune in the years 1870-1. The same years had seen the completion of the political unification of Italy and of Germany. For Italy this revolutionary change had taken twelve years (1859-70) and for Germany eight (1864-71). Canada, too, had attained political unity in a self-governing federation in 1867. The United States’ unity had been preserved, but its internal balance of power had been at the same time revolutionized, in the Civil War of 1861-5, the greatest, bloodiest, and most devastating war of any in the World between 1815 and 1914. In Russia a new age had opened with the liberation of the serfs in 1861 and the accompanying reforms of other institutions. India had been through the shattering experience of the Mutiny of 1857, and China through the shattering experience of her war with Great Britain and France in 1858-60, which finally brought home to her a realization of her impotence in face of Western military power. These upheavals all round England had either left her untouched or had failed to touch her to the quick. And this exemption from the World’s common lot in the eighteen-sixties and seventies made the shock of 1914 particularly severe for her. Having been born in England in 1889, I felt this shock in its full force, and it must have been affecting my outlook and my work continuously and profoundly ever since.
The Meiji revolution in Japan (1867) should have been mentioned here.
“A” Company of the 4th Battalion, Royal Fusiliers (9th Brigade, 3rd Division) on August 22, 1914, resting in the square at Mons, the day before the Battle of Mons. Shortly after this picture was taken the Company moved into position at Nimy on the bank of the Mons-Condé Canal.
A Study of History, Vol XII: Reconsiderations, OUP, 1961
What does Sisman say about Trevor-Roper’s attacks on Toynbee?
They appeared in two main pieces of journalism during Toynbee’s lifetime:
Testing the Toynbee System, The Sunday Times (London), October 17 1954 (reprinted in MF Ashley Montagu, editor, Toynbee and History, Critical Essays and Reviews, Boston, Porter Sargent, 1956)
Arnold Toynbee’s Millennium, Encounter, June 1957 (reprinted in Men and Events, New York, Harper, 1957, but not in Historical Essays, Macmillan, 1957; and in Stephen Spender, Irving Kristol and Melvin J Lasky, editors, Encounters, An Anthology from the First Ten Years of Encounter Magazine, Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1963)
and in one after it:
The Prophet, review of McNeill’s biography of Toynbee, New York Review of Books, New York, October 12 1989.
His views, and Berenson’s, are also made clear, in more than one letter, in
Richard Davenport-Hines, editor, Letters from Oxford, Hugh Trevor-Roper to Bernard Berenson, Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 2006.
The Encounter article is a comic tour-de-force and did the most damage, though it contains more wit than substance. Extracts do not bring out its violence. The review of McNeill is calmer and more searching (it is the best of the bunch), but his views have not changed. It is even more devastating than its intemperate predecessor. All three should be reprinted together. I won’t quote from them except via Sisman and Urban. “Mockery,” McNeill, Toynbee’s biographer, points out, “was more effective than criticism, since it denied the intellectual significance of what it mocked. Toynbee’s reputation has yet to recover [...].”
Adam Sisman in Hugh Trevor-Roper: The Biography, Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 2010, quotes a letter to Roy Harrod, undated, but early October 1954:
“‘Having just reviewed the last four volumes of Arnold Toynbee’s pretentious Study of History which is similar [to Tawney] in its dishonest method. I feel that the whole science of history is being vitiated by these methods whereby theories are first stated as facts on the basis of illustrations arbitrarily selected and then, when challenged, defended by dishonest tricks and a deferential editorial guillotine.’”
“‘Never have I enjoyed a review more than your pasting of Toynbee,’ wrote Noel Annan [to T-R on October 21]. Hugh suggested to the BBC that he should broadcast on this ‘monstrous piece of humbug imposed on a credulous public’, but his proposal was declined. ‘I really don’t think that T.R. is the man to do it,’ commented the experienced Third Programme producer Anna Kallin [note written on T-R’s letter of October 13 to Michael Stephen]. She thought his letter ‘childish’. The right way to tackle the subject was a discussion between Toynbee and a ‘mature’ historian – not an ‘irresponsible youth’ like Trevor-Roper.”
Sisman doesn’t point out that Annan had written in the Manchester Guardian on the very same day:
“How fortunate for us that A Study of History, one of the most striking analyses of life in our times, has been written by a man of such humanity and wisdom and with such a passion for inquiry. Today one feeling for his thirty years’ labour must predominate. Admiration for an achievement which has made his name a household word and history something new and exciting to countless people who needed a wider horizon than the old European landscape. Admiration for the tenacity in completing a task from which he has not permitted war or private troubles to deflect him. Admiration for his humanism, for his sympathy for ages and peoples long departed from this earth, and for his magnificent feat of synthesizing such diverse and intractable material. The scholar’s calling is, after all, to create order where none before existed; and to that calling Professor Toynbee has been faithful.”
Moving on to 1957, Sisman quotes the TES:
“‘If anyone is inclined to associate regius professorships with ripe wisdom, rotundity, and the mellow after-effects of port, let him turn up an article in the current number of Encounter, by H.R. Trevor-Roper, designated Regius Professor of Modern History in the University of Oxford,’ urged The Times Education [that should be Educational] Supplement [on June 14], a week after the appointment was announced; ‘it will make him blink.’ Described as a ‘blistering philippic’ by the TES, ‘Arnold Toynbee’s Millennium’ accused Toynbee of predicting (and desiring) the political collapse of the West, and of aspiring to found a new religion, of which he himself would be acclaimed as the prophet. In time, this article would be rated [by Martin Seymour-Smith, Birmingham Post, January 7 1964] as ‘one of the most savage and cruel yet justified and effective attacks on one historian by another ever written’. [But what did Seymour-Smith know?] Conscious that it would be controversial, Hugh had delayed its publication until he was sure of the Regius Chair.
“Arnold Toynbee was then in his late sixties, with a worldwide reputation. His face had appeared on the front cover of Time magazine. His 6,000-page, ten-volume A Study of History was an historical Zeppelin. Though experts often tried to shoot it down, their criticisms had no more effect than the pricks of mosquitoes. Indeed, so enormous was it in size and scope that no other historian was qualified to take its measure. The public regarded this floating giant with awe. It was hailed as ‘an immortal masterpiece’, ‘the greatest work of our time’ and as ‘probably the greatest historical work ever written’. [No attributions. Perhaps Time magazine, or T-R quoting without attributions.] The abridged version of the book became a bestseller, particularly in America. ‘As a dollar earner, we are told,’ commented Hugh [Encounter article], ‘it ranks second only to whisky.’ The author, the captain of this floating leviathan, had acquired the status of a sage.
“Toynbee’s mind offended Hugh because it was fundamentally ‘antirational and illiberal’. Everything that Hugh valued – freedom, reason, the human spirit – Toynbee found odious. [What?] Toynbee hated Western civilisation because it embodied these values. Or so it seemed to Hugh. His taste also rebelled against the obscurity of Toynbee’s prose, and his intellect was repelled by Toynbee’s pervading religiosity. Moreover, Toynbee’s theories were bogus. The volumes he had written pre-war had predicted the end of Western civilisation under the twin assault from fascism and Communism. In fact, the opposite had happened: Western civilisation had defeated fascism and was now holding its own in an ideological struggle with Communism.
“In the final volume of his Study of History, Toynbee claimed to have been singled out for his task; to have received periodic signs of his election; to have been granted special visions; to have been transported through ‘the deep trough of time’ to witness the past in action; to feel, in one brief moment, in communion, not just with this or that episode in history, but with ‘all that had been, and was, and was to come’; and to have sensed ‘the passage of History gently flowing through him in a mighty current, and of his own life welling like a wave in the flow of the vast tide’. [Quotations substantially correct, but I haven’t checked them.]
“Hugh recognised that it was futile to try to tackle Toynbee on his own terms; satire was the best way to expose the egotism concealed beneath Toynbee’s saintly demeanour. The Zeppelin was kept aloft by hot air; once punctured, it would collapse to the ground. Hugh began by separating the volumes of the Study of History into two ‘Testaments’: the pre-war volumes comprising the Old Testament, and the post-war volumes the New. He showed Toynbee to be ‘the prophet’ of a ‘New Universal Church’ – not only that, but close analysis of the text revealed him to be the Messiah too. Scholarly scrutiny uncovered ‘the authentic record of everything that matters in his Life: the minor prophets who dimly heralded his coming; the Holy Family; the precocious Infancy; the youthful Temptations; the missionary Journeys; the Miracles; the Revelations; the Agony’.
“This analysis was preposterous, of course. Yet Toynbee’s absurd preoccupation with himself left him open to this kind of ridicule. As Hugh pointed out, the index entry for ‘Toynbee, Arnold Joseph’ in A Study of History occupied more than twice as much space as the entry for ‘History’ itself. Even Hugh’s use of capital letters echoed Toynbee’s grandiloquent capitalising of abstract terms.
“Hugh’s attack on Toynbee was the subject of newspaper stories across the world, and by no means confined to the highbrow press. [...] ‘It is hard to remember when one scholar assaulted another in such a way,’ commented ‘Pendennis’ in The Observer. [Table Talk, June 9.] ‘There are some who say that Mr Trevor-Roper’s vindictiveness, particularly his old-fashioned anti-clericalism, is really a form of adolescent humour,’ ‘Pendennis’ continued. ‘Others are wondering about the influence on undergraduates of a man capable of writing a considered article with such elaborate violence and personal hatred.’
“Hugh received a number of letters congratulating him on his deflation of Toynbee. A.J.P. Taylor’s response [June 4] was characteristic. ‘Your piece on Toynbee’s millennium was the most brilliant thing I have read for many years,’ he enthused. A month afterwards [July 6] he referred to it approvingly in the New Statesman. ‘The best thing in Trevor-Roper’s article was the description of Toynbee’s creed as ‘the religion of mish-mash’; the phrase was mine.’”
Hardly the best thing. Summarised thus, minus the wit, T-R’s attack seems thin. He didn’t like the religious content in the book, he thought the cyclical theories were bogus (which they were when pushed beyond a certain point), and he found Toynbee egotistical. I won’t repeat my views in detail. Toynbee’s prose is Latinate, sinuous, often contorted, but never “obscure”. It was not a “bogus theory” to predict “the end of Western civilisation under the twin assault from fascism and Communism”, if that is indeed what he did. And to mock him, at length, as a self-appointed religious prophet is merely nonsense. Did T-R attack over-studious fellow-pupils when he was at school? Toynbee’s autobiographical passages in the tenth volume, which made T-R think he was “unhinged” (letter to Berenson, September 8 1954), were more expressions of pietas than egotistical. They were innocent.
T-R of course admired Toynbee’s other arch-critic, Pieter Geyl, a great historian who was as much a hero for him as Burckhardt. He writes to Berenson on February 5 1953:
“He is [...] in a class by himself, or perhaps a class which he shares with Namier, Braudel, and one or two others.”
One cannot read a page of Geyl without agreeing. But Geyl’s criticisms of Toynbee were criticisms of substance. He also gives Toynbee his due. Trevor-Roper merely added a note of comedy. But he was writing in the mainstream English media.
Trevor-Roper accused Toynbee of looking forward to the downfall of the West. George Urban referred to the accusation in his conversations with Toynbee which were broadcast on Radio Free Europe in 1972-3 and published in book form in the following year, the last Toynbee title to appear in his lifetime.
URBAN: Hugh Trevor-Roper [...], in a very bitter and extremely personal attack against you in Encounter, said in so many words that he found the character of your work not only erroneous but “hateful”:
Toynbee does not only utter false arguments and dogmatic statements, calling them “scientific” and “empirical”; he does not only preach a gospel of deliberate obscurantism; he seems to undermine our will, welcome our defeat, gloat over the extinction of our civilization, not because he supports the form of civilization which threatens us, but because he is animated by what we can only call a masochistic desire to be conquered. If Hitler and Stalin rejoiced in the prospect of destroying the West, theirs at least was a crude, intelligible rejoicing. They smacked their lips because they looked for plunder. Toynbee has no such clear interests in supporting a conqueror. He hungers spiritually not for this or that conquest, but for our defeat.
I have corrected that quotation slightly, referring to the text as shown in the 1963 book.
TOYNBEE: I made some personal enquiries because I was concerned and curious about Trevor-Roper’s attack. Apparently he thinks I have deliberately set out to be a prophet and to lay the foundations of a future cult. This is of course quite fantastic, but the fact that he, I’m sure bona fide, believes this to be true throws light on his own thinking. I was told he has an almost physical horror of my attitude to life. Now in our talk today we have already seen the real justification of Trevor-Roper’s view that I am prophetic, in the sense that I care immensely about what is going to happen after I am dead. As to Trevor-Roper’s imputation that I somehow relished the prospect of the Western democracies’ collapse under the impact of nazism, I can only say that this is nonsense, and it is not even plausible nonsense. All through the Second World War I was working day and night for the British Government, and my reactions were like those of the rest of the British: In 1940 I didn’t see how we could possibly win, but I assumed, like everybody else here, that we would go on fighting. And when the news came of Pearl Harbor, I thought to myself, why, Hitler has lost the war – I was thrilled and exhilarated at the prospect that we were going to be on the winning side after all. No, Trevor-Roper labors under an illusion. If you were to ask people at the Foreign Office for whom I was working during the war, they might say I was doing my job efficiently or inefficiently, but they would certainly say I was working whole heartedly for the victory of Britain and the defeat of Hitler. I thought it would be the most terrible thing for Europe if Hitler won. One must distinguish between not seeing how Hitler could fail to win, which was very difficult to see in 1940, and wishing Hitler to win. I never wished Hitler to win – with all my heart I wished him to lose and be defeated.
URBAN: Trevor-Roper, to do him justice, didn’t say in so many words that you were hoping or working for nazi victory – although he did say that you were the unconscious intellectual ally of Hitler in the non-nazi world; the brunt of his attack was that the Second World War did not bring about the death of our civilization – which it ought to have done if there was truth in the laws of your Study – and that you were consequently disappointed. The years 1939-45 did not, he says, change your eagerness to see the West destroyed.
TOYNBEE: I’m a Westerner; I have a stake in the West’s future, I value Western civilization, and I don’t want to see it go under. Secondly, I have always been a great anti-imperialist, a supporter of the underdog. I have always wanted to see the domination of the West over the rest of the world reduced again to its normal position of equality with the other present-day civilizations. For instance, I was thoroughly in favor of the British Labor Government giving independence to India, Pakistan, and Ceylon in 1947, but this is different from wishing the West to disappear. I have often written that the West is a minority in numbers, and, as technological superiority is a wasting asset because in time other people learn what the West has invented, it is very important – and in the West’s interest – that we should come down to a footing of equality in good time, rather than be overthrown, clinging to power, and then have the roles reversed. But this is not anti-Western – it is pro-Western: a wish for the preservation of the Western civilization as one among a number of different civilizations.
The West’s ascendancy over the rest of the world during the last three centuries has been reflected in the recent Western way of looking at mankind’s history as all leading up to the modern West. I think this West-centered view of history is a palpable case of subjectivism; it seems to me to misrepresent the reality and, in so far as it distorts it, to make it unintelligible.
In the third place, I have always been very cautious in prophesying about living civilizations because I realize that I’m in the middle of the story. I have always said that retrospectively I can see the patterns, the regularities of history – though I recognize that this is very controversial – but that one cannot spot current or future patterns and prophesy that the West is or is not going to fall, or that any other thing is or is not going to happen. It is impossible to do this because there is – or so it seems to me – an element of unpredictability, of free will in human affairs. For all these reasons Trevor-Roper’s attack on me on this point is not borne out by what I’ve said or done.
I would say Trevor-Roper himself is not entirely detached – no human being can be. We are all actors in the drama we are watching. Perhaps in studying atoms and electrons, a human being can be purely a spectator (I’m not even sure about that), but certainly in studying other human beings’ behavior he cannot be purely a spectator; he can be a spectator but he is also a participant, even if the other human being is paleolithic man, because we are all part of human society, we all share in human destiny – we are involved. I think it is an illusion to imagine that the historian can escape from this personal involvement: If you could escape from it you would really stultify yourself for dealing with human affairs, because in saying that now I have to discard one kind of enquiry because it would be subjective, and then another because it would be political or prophetic, by the time you had finished you’d have discarded the study of human affairs and said: I’ve got to be a physicist or mathematician, I cannot study human affairs at all. This comes out in quantification. The possibility of quantifying some aspect of human activity successfully varies in inverse ratio to the human importance of that particular aspect. This comes out very clearly in those fascinating tables in Sorokin’s books: He is most successful where his tables matter least.
URBAN: I feel some of Trevor-Roper’s imputations are too farfetched to be taken at face value. Nevertheless, your conception of the role of history and of the historian is so elevated that one could call it religious without, I believe, violating your meaning. Your Study is certainly a theodicy [...].
Sisman tells us that the (blind) Indian writer Ved Mehta interviewed Trevor-Roper (and Toynbee and other eminent Englishmen) for The New Yorker. (The date is unclear from Sisman’s notes. Presumably 1962. Morton’s Toynbee bibliography mentions a piece by Mehta, which may not be the interview, in The New Yorker on December 8 1962.) He read Arnold Toynbee’s Millennium in preparation.
“In Mehta’s judgement Hugh was ‘the cruellest and most lacerating’ of Toynbee’s critics, and his article on Taylor had been ‘only a little less violent’. Afterwards Mehta reflected that Hugh had a gift for marshalling the faults of an historian ‘without a grain of sympathy. … He put me in mind of a literary critic who has no love for writers, whose criticism is not an enhancement of our understanding, an invitation to read the book again in the light of his interpretation, but simply an instrument of destruction.’ Though on further reflection, Mehta speculated that perhaps the explanation for the violence of this polemic lay not with Hugh’s psychology, but with England itself:
‘Going for the largest game, creating an intellectual sensation, striking a posture, sometimes at the expense of truth, stating the arguments against a book or its author in the most relentless, sometimes violent way, engaging the interest of practically the whole intelligentsia by using every nook and cranny of journalism, carrying on a bitter war of words in public but keeping friendships intact in private, generally enjoying the fun of going against the grain – all these features prominent in historical disputation were also part of the broader English mental scene.’”
Some or all of this is in Mehta’s Fly and the Fly-Bottle, Encounters with British Intellectuals, Boston, Little Brown, 1962. Perhaps Mehta’s inclination towards Toynbee was part of a broader, usually ill-focussed, emerging-world interest in Toynbee. Wikipedia’s article on T-R has a reference to “Saleh, Zaki (1958). Trevor-Roper’s Critique of Arnold Toynbee: A Symptom of Intellectual Chaos. Baghdad: Al-Ma’eref Press”. I have not looked at this or the Mehta piece.
“He drew a circle that shut me out –
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
But Love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle that took him in.”
In his conversations with Urban, Toynbee tries to account for the animosity among historians and to go a little deeper than Mehta:
— it’s the odium theologicum of our time. There is a difference between British and non-British historians, but there is also – as I know from the reviews of different installments of my book – a difference between pre-Second World War historians and post-Second World War historians on this point of acrimony, temper, and animus. The first six volumes of my Study were reviewed before the Second World War; some of the reviews were just as critical, just as condemnatory, if you like, as later reviews, but they were all good tempered and polite, and however strongly they censured me, there was no kind of personal, or even abstract, hostility. Since the war it’s not only I who’ve been savagely attacked by his fellow historians, and I’m not sure that the viciousness of the infighting is peculiar to historians. If you took a sample of British reviews of poetry, novels, and scientific works you would probably find the same. I’ve thought about this a good deal, and I suspect the acrimony has something to do with the unhappy things that have happened to the British since the war. It may be a consciousness of Britain having become a second-class power instead of a first-class power. We have, by the standards of past empires, behaved rather well – we left India before we were kicked out, and have decolonized our whole empire; we have accepted the fact that the pound is not the world’s reserve currency, and that we are a minor nuclear power. But while on the surface a nation may seem reasonable, underneath it she may be subconsciously boiling, and this comes out in bitterness and aggressiveness. There are cases in history in which a big reverse in a country’s relations with the outer world is followed by fratricidal wars. Take fifteenth century English history: We had one of our biggest reverses in Joan of Arc; we were pushed out of France ignominiously, but immediately after, instead of feeling that they were companions in misfortune, the English fought a very brutal civil war, the Wars of the Roses. So this infighting and savagery may be the psychological effects of having come down in the world and having to digest the reverses. Does this sound like a reasonable explanation?
Reasonable enough to me. And T-R had a wit and eloquence which demanded, almost libidinously, to be used. Hence his clashes with many others.
The most aggressive, and probably the most unnecessary, of all the polemics published at the expense of a living figure in England in this period was FR Leavis’s against CP Snow in The Spectator on March 9 1962. Even Macaulay’s altercation with Southey was couched in different terms.
Toynbee points out in the long twelfth volume, Reconsiderations, that
the purpose of publishing books and reviewing them is, not to defend and attack personal positions, but to co-operate in working for the advancement of knowledge and understanding [...].
In its Introduction he states, without mentioning Trevor-Roper:
When I am playing the role of a reviewer I find it a useful rule to remind myself of the indubitable truth that a reviewer inevitably reviews himself, too, in the act of reviewing the author whose book lies on his dissecting table. Whenever a reviewer is tempted to treat an author as a dart-board he should remember that the missile which his hand is itching to lance is not a dart but a boomerang.
Whether or not Trevor-Roper had demeaned himself, there was a certain justice when, with the Hitler diaries fiasco, he suffered an embarrassment as great as any he had tried to inflict on others. And he was then condemned to the same level of journalism that he had caused to be suffered by Toynbee. Sisman:
“‘Hitler Diaries Hoax Victim Lord Dacre dies at 89’, The Times reported on the day after his death. It printed a shrewd but malicious obituary by his old adversary Maurice Cowling. This was an unkind way for a serious newspaper to remember one of its own directors, especially as the paper itself bore some responsibility for the gaffe. Other obituaries suggested that Hugh’s reputation as an historian had been ‘damaged’, ‘tarnished’, or ‘besmirched’. A 1992 piece in The Daily Telegraph had described him as ‘once eminent but now discredited’.”
The same journalists are now writing about a Trevor-Roper “revival” because of his Nachlass. (Since his death, we have had his biggest book by number of pages, a life of Theodore de Mayerne; a study of Scottish history; a new volume of essays; letters to Berenson; now the Sisman biography. Sisman tells us that there is more to come, including at least two more volumes of essays, early memoirs, perhaps more letters, and some notebooks. The uncollected journalism alone must be important, because many of his essays were reviews, and he was a supreme essayist. Sisman points out that, if you define a book in a certain way, there were only three “proper” books in his lifetime: Archbishop Laud, The Last Days of Hitler – even that modern classic, surely, is an extended essay – and the delectable Hermit of Peking. Laud was almost juvenilia.)
“Rubbery” (immune from criticism, according to Richard Pares) as Toynbee seemed, Geyl’s and others’ criticisms led him to write a long twelfth volume of the Study, after the Atlas. An Annex in it, called Ad Hominem, replied to some of the personal attacks and contained four sections:
1. Acknowledgements and Thanks to My Critics
2. Effects of a Classical Education
(i) Fortunate Effects
(ii) Unfortunate Effects
(a) Effects on my Writing of English
(b) Effects on the Range of my Knowledge
3. Effects of Having been Born in 1889 and in England
4. Effects of Being What One Is [can “being” have effects?]
(i) Irreverence towards Pretensions to Uniqueness
(ii) Disregard for Scholarly Caution
Toynbee refers to Trevor-Roper half a dozen times en passant in Reconsiderations (the references are not worth summarising here), but could not engage with him in a sustained way, since Trevor-Roper himself had used mockery, not reasoned argument. He writes of the Encounter piece merely:
On the article as a whole, no comment.
He reviewed The Last Days of Hitler in the Saturday Review, a US weekly, on August 16 1947: his only piece of journalism about T-R. I am sure that it was a kind review.
Sisman’s detailed and readable book is 648 pages long. Good subject as T-R is, something elegant and of more Roperian length might have sufficed. He had T-R’s blessing, but says that he was placed under no constraints. His writing is competent journalese.
Buy it here.
Trevor-Roper, last photograph
Toynbee on Toynbee, A Conversation between Arnold J Toynbee and GR Urban, New York, OUP, 1974
A Study of History, Vol XII: Reconsiderations, OUP, 1961
A Study of History, Vol XII: Reconsiderations, OUP, 1961 (footnote)
I expected to be a Greek and Roman historian spending all my time and energy on Greek and Roman history. My first job was at Oxford where I was a so-called ancient history don – and I started by absorbing as much knowledge of my subject as I could. And when I had taken my degree I began to absorb what I hadn’t studied as an undergraduate. I was teaching Greek and Roman history when the First World War broke out and it suddenly struck me, teaching people from Thucydides, that Thucydides had already anticipated our experiences, namely the outbreak of a great war, which he immediately saw as a turning point in the history of his civilization. We were just coming to that point, which meant that although Thucydides was centuries back in chronological time, measured by the experience of human affairs and destiny he had already experienced what I was just reaching, and this made me see that one could put Greek and Roman history side by side with modern Western history and compare them right outside the chronological framework. This rather sudden flash of insight made me realize that I must organize my study of history – not just amass more and more shapeless information – and that I must organize it on comparative lines. Next, I found that comparing Greek and Roman history with only modern Western history wouldn’t do – I must compare all the histories of all civilizations and obtain enough information about each of them to make a reasonable comparative study of the gamut of them. The patterns and regularities which you find in my Study emerged empirically from these comparisons.
Toynbee on Toynbee, A Conversation between Arnold J Toynbee and GR Urban, New York, OUP, 1974
Recorded for the 1972-73 programmes of Radio Free Europe.
Johnson’s Brief Lives are two hundred-odd gossipy pieces about people he has met or known. They are not even as biographical as Aubrey’s. The title is a misnomer as well as a copy.
The subtitle on the cover is An Intimate and Very Personal Portrait of the Twentieth Century. Very.
There is a joint entry on Arnold Toynbee and his son Philip.
“It is extraordinary to think that when I first went up to Oxford in 1946 many people regarded Arnold Toynbee as the world’s greatest living historian. The first six volumes of his A Short History appeared that year.”
No, they didn’t. Somervell’s abridgement of the first six volumes of the Study appeared in 1946 in one volume. There was no book called A Short History of anything. The first three volumes of the main work had appeared in 1934, the next three in 1939. It is extraordinary to think that American interviewers regularly introduce Paul Johnson as “the great historian”.
“It was immediately denounced by Hugh Trevor-Roper, and many other academics (especially Peter Geyl, who wrote a superb essay about it) as a pretentious fraud.”
No, it was not. Trevor-Roper made his first denunciation in 1954, eight years later, when the last four volumes appeared. Geyl wrote not one essay, but several equally important ones, and his name was Pieter not Peter.
And Geyl and Trevor-Roper concerned themselves only with the original work, not with the abridgement.
“But, considering its length (four more volumes appeared in 1957, … ”
No. The last four volumes appeared in 1954. Somervell’s abridgement of the last four appeared in 1957 in one volume.
“ … then two more in 1961, … ”
No, only one in 1961.
“ … and a condensation the same year; … )”
No condensation between 1957 and 1972.
“After politics, journalism has always been the preferred career of the ambitious but lazy second-rater”: Gore Vidal, View from the Diners Club, 1991. Johnson thinks that his gossip will be authentic if he doesn’t check anything. That is apparently how he writes history. His lazy and second-rate publisher, Hutchinson, takes him at his word.
“I dipped into it a lot but whenever I came across an event I knew about, Toynbee always got it slightly, sometimes profoundly, wrong.”
Give us an example.
“I complained about this to A. L. Rowse, who said: ‘He is certainly all wrong about Queen Elizabeth. The only book he seems to have read is Lytton Strachey’s Elizabeth and Essex.’”
He was probably right, but there is something almost comically provincial in Rowse, of whom I am a great fan, fishing out “Elizabeth” from the ocean of historical references in A Study of History.
Toynbee admitted that he knew nothing about English history. His detractors said that he knew nothing about any history other than the history of territories at some stage occupied or directly influenced by the Greeks.
“‘I read some of it [Rowse continues] because it was attacked so ferociously by Hugh Roper. [Johnson usually calls Trevor-Roper “Roper”.] As Hugh is wrong about so many things I thought he might be wrong about this too. But I fear he is right. Not that Arnold will mind, as he is the most insufferably conceited man in creation.’”
Geyl and Trevor-Roper also saw an irritating conceit in Toynbee. Nothing would touch him. Johnson’s passage confirms that all three of the Oxford triumvirate of my day – Trevor-Roper, Taylor, Rowse – agreed about Toynbee. There is a mildly critical reference to him in Rowse’s entertaining All Souls in My Time (1993), and Rowse quotes Richard Pares’s description of him as a “rubbery man”; there are two more in Historians I Have Known (1996). I suppose Pares meant that criticisms seemed to bounce off him or make no mark on him, or he considered him an escapologist or contortionist.
“Rowse related to me a conversation between Churchill and Attlee at the Commons. Churchill: ‘Have you read this man Toynbee?’ ‘A bit.’ ‘What do you think of it?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘Same here.’ ‘Who do you think is our best historian?’ ‘Arthur Bryant.’ ‘So do I.’ Rowse laughed: ‘And why not? He is good. Though not as good as me.’”
This not very brilliant anecdote reminds us of the other great demolition of a modern English historian’s reputation. Trevor-Roper destroyed Toynbee’s, Andrew Roberts exposed the once popular Arthur Bryant as an arch-toady and appeaser in Patriotism: The Last Refuge of Sir Arthur Bryant, an essay in his Eminent Churchillians (1994). That book, incidentally, lists Toynbee as an appeasement historian. There was a tendency in Toynbee in that direction, but you cannot apply the label to him without many qualifications, and not after Abyssinia.
“By all accounts, Toynbee was an obsessive worker. The only time I met him, he said to me: ‘Make a plan for each workday. Never lose a minute. People waste a lot of time over meals. I don’t. Napoleon never spent more than ten minutes over a meal, if he could help it. I do the same. Walking is good, because you see and learn things. All other sports and exercise are a waste of time and energy.’ He leaned towards me confidentially (we were at a Chatham House party): ‘You can waste a lot of time on – er – well – sex. There again, Napoleon is an example. He believed copulation should never take more than ten minutes.’ I thought he was a grandiose booby but I remembered what he said about Napoleon – another count against the monster.”
This, of course, is vulgar caricature. The first part is credible, though if you read Toynbee’s letters, you do not get the impression of a man incapable of relaxing. Toynbee worked at a Victorian pace, but he enjoyed food and wine and company, and travel. The tendency for ordinary meals to drag on is anyway modern. Family meals in old-fashioned houses were regular and short. The same was no doubt true of sex, but I do not believe the last part of this very Johnsonian anecdote. He would have been too dignified to say this.
“Toynbee’s austerity and work obsession must have made life with him hell. He married a daughter of the great Gilbert Murray, but the marriage did not last.”
It did. It lasted thirty-two years. Does he know why Gilbert Murray was great?
“They had three sons, of whom I knew Philip, for many years the chief literary critic of the Observer. When Philip was in his sixties, he sent his father, still alive but pretty old, a long, itemised bill, coming to (I think) about £80,000, and headed ‘For Ruining My Childhood.’”
No, he did not. When Philip was in his sixties, his father was dead.
The “(I think)” is in the manner of Aubrey. At least he admits here that he might be wrong. McNeill does not mention this bill in his biography of Toynbee, but the story is credible even if we are not told its source. Toynbee was a distant father. When people are present and absent at the same time, absorbed in their own world, the effect on people around them can be more devastating than if they are physically away. Toynbee’s oldest son Tony committed suicide in 1939. His middle son Philip exhibited bouts of attention-seeking and self-pity, drank, and suffered in later life from severe depression.
“He meant it seriously, too, though naturally Arnold did not pay up. Philip was tall, like his father, and handsome in a rough and primitive way. As a boy he had been a Communist, along with Esmond Romilly, who married the CP Mitford girl, Jessica. They ran away from school, Philip from Rugby, Romilly from Wellington. Philip was, so he said, the first Communist President of the Oxford Union. But in the war he was a captain. When I knew him he was famous for founding, with Ben Nicolson (Harold’s son) a ‘progressive’ lunch club, at Bertorelli’s. I was never invited to one of their ‘do’s’, being part of a rival gang. In any case, I was always careful never to sit next to Philip at a meal as he was liable to get horribly drunk and vomit all over you. As a critic he was erratic. He made a fool of himself over Colin Wilson’s The Outsider, which he hailed as a masterpiece and helped to make into an ephemeral bestseller. But his work was gradually taken over by his religiosity. He attacked my History of Christianity for not devoting enough attention to mysticism. He certainly did not make that mistake himself. All his energies [not quite all] went into a gigantic poem, Pantaloon, never published in full. So he became a famous bore, like his father, though in a different way.”
Why be so unpleasant about him? He was a troubled but not an uninteresting man, even if no one is going to read Pantaloon.
Most journalistic utterances about Arnold Toynbee are shoddy. Why not praise the nobility of his undertaking or his scholarship in “straight” works such as Hannibal’s Legacy? Why not ask yourself why you find his work merely “repellent”, a word Johnson uses?
His opinions are second-hand. Discrimination is harder work. Johnson likes it easy. If there were to be a new Ten Commandments for those who do not believe in God and don’t think that they need to be told not to steal, the most demanding would have to be: “Don’t jump on bandwagons.”
This passage probably does not contain his own insight, but it perhaps says something about Greene:
“The trouble with Greene was that he went to a school (Berkhamsted) where his father was headmaster. This set up in him an unresolvable conflict of allegiance – should he be loyal to his friends or to his father? – and this led, in practice, to a deep-rooted instinct to betray.”
He develops the point for a few lines. There is an absurd non sequitur at the end. And whom or what did Greene betray?
His piece on Trevor-Roper gets the years of his birth and death wrong (they are his brother’s years) and says that his Archbishop Laud was published before the war when it was published during it. Trevor-Roper was made a life peer in 1979, when his wife was seventy-two, but Johnson tells us that after that things started to go wrong and his marriage was childless.
One or two passages aside, the name-dropping is rampant, the thoughts trivial, the language fake upper-class, the writing slovenly, the anecdotes humourless. The nadir is reached in the section on Forster.
“I saw him once [it’s often “once” in this book], in Pall Mall, standing on the steps of the Reform Club. He wore an old mackintosh, stained, greasy and crumpled. The figure struck me as the epitome of the Man in the Dirty Raincoat. It began to rain as he hesitated on the top step. Then he turned up his collar so that only his big, sharp nose showed, moved gingerly down the steps, crossed the road and headed for Soho. Going cruising, was he? Cottaging? Better say: looking for copy.”
“During the First World War King’s College of the University of London became a leading centre for the study of Russia and Eastern Europe. Its principal, Ronald Burrows, a committed philhellene and devoted admirer of the Greek prime minister Eleftherios Venizelos, had a particular interest in the promotion of Byzantine and Modern Greek studies. It was Burrows’ enthusiasm, supported by Venizelos, that led to the establishment in 1919 of the Koraes Chair of Modern Greek and Byzantine History, Language and Literature. The endowment for the chair was raised by a group of wealthy Anglo-Greeks, while the Greek government provided an annual subsidy. The 29-year-old historian Arnold Toynbee was chosen as the first incumbent of the chair.
“In 1921 Toynbee, on leave of absence, covered the Greek-Turkish war in Asia Minor for the Manchester Guardian and reported on the atrocities committed by Greek troops. On his return he wrote The Western Question in Greece and Turkey, which appeared in the summer of 1922 shortly before the rout of the Greek forces by the Turkish nationalists led by Mustafa Kemal (Atatürk). Toynbee’s writings and his growing sympathy for the Turkish cause enraged the Greek donors of the chair who, grouped in a Subscribers’ Committee, put strong pressure on the college and university authorities. Toynbee also came under fire from an influential group of colleagues. The cumulative furore forced Toynbee to resign from the chair in 1924 at the end of his first five-year term.
“Now the papers of the major protagonists have enabled a detailed reconstruction to be made of the interaction of international and academic politics. The controversy has some contemporary relevance as it touches on fundamental questions of academic freedom and on the problems inherent in the reliance of academic institutions on outside sources of funding.”
Toynbee, apparently, had not known of the existence of the Subscribers’ Committee when he took the chair. Modern parallel: denial of tenure to Norman Finkelstein, author of The Holocaust Industry, at DePaul University, Chicago, in 2007. Did Toynbee’s views on Israel eventually marginalise him in the US? When did the lobby tighten its grip?
The fifth chapter in McNeill’s biography is about Toynbee’s changing views of near-eastern politics and how events there in the ’20s confirmed him in positions he had taken in the Foreign Office towards the end of the First World War; and about his changing ideas on history before and during the King’s years, and how they were leading him towards the Study. It is hard not to feel some sympathy with the Greeks in the row in which it all culminated. Were they being so unreasonable?
Ancient Greece in the King’s entrance hall (Sophocles by Constantin Dausch, a copy of a Roman copy, the Lateran Sophocles at the Vatican; Sappho by Ferdinand Seeboeck, original; both commissioned by Frida Mond, wife of Ludwig, and passing to King’s on her death in 1923)
We met Toynbee in Santa Barbara in May 1967 recently, in an informal conversation with fellows of the Center for the Study of Democratic Institutions.
Here he is at a session in a meeting organised by the Santa Barbara-based Center in New York in 1965. The Online Archive of California calls it a “‘Convocation on the Requirements of Peace’ held in New York City, Feb. 18-20, 1965. Speakers included U.N. Secretary-General U Thant, Vice President Hubert H. Humphrey, Chief Justice Earl Warren, J. William Fulbright, Paul Hoffman, Adlai Stevenson, and Arnold Toynbee.” It opened at the UN General Assembly. Where did subsequent sessions take place?
The recordings are at The Donald C Davidson Library at the University of California, Santa Barbara, which holds the Center’s archives. The Davidson site gives the session title as Ideology and Intervention and its blurb as: “The old criteria about ideological differences are no longer useful, as many have been blurred by technological advances. The advent of the nuclear age makes necessary an even more rapid accommodation between different systems.”
The first sentence at first seems prescient. This was 1965, not 1985. But actually it refers back to 1945. Hallock Hoffman of the Center introduces the tape (which is not mentioned in Morton’s bibliography).
“History may one day record our time as the period when the nations of the world took the first significant steps toward achieving a lasting peace, not because men abhor war, but because war in a nuclear age is unthinkable. In February 1965 an international convocation was held in New York City in which more than sixty diplomats, politicians, theologians and intellectuals from twenty nations gathered to discuss the requirements of peace. The convocation was called by Center for the Study of Democratic Institutions to consider the practical implication of Pope John XXIII’s encyclical Pacem in Terris, Peace on Earth. The meetings took place in a time of violence, disorder and despair. The General Assembly of the United Nations had adjourned the day before because the nations could not settle the payment of dues. In Vietnam, the war was escalating. At home, Americans demonstrated in Selma, Alabama against racial injustice. [...] The technological revolution which is making it possible to wipe out poverty and hunger threatens also to wipe out Mankind. Technology is outracing the imagination of Man. We have made a new world, but we cling to the status quo of antiquated political attitudes and institutions. [...] Although technology has already blurred the sharp differences in opposing ideological systems, the myths about those ideologies remain. In a panel led by J William Fulbright, Chairman of the Foreign Affairs Committee of the United States Senate, Arnold Toynbee of Britain and Yevgenyi Zhukov of the Academy of Sciences in the USSR explored the problems of mutual interest and mutual trust among the nations of the world. Senator Fulbright opened the discussion.” The first omitted passage quotes Senator Gaylord Nelson.
Pacem in Terris (1963) was the most famous twentieth-century encyclical (Darius Milhaud made a cantata from it in the same year), with Pius XI’s Mit brennender Sorge (1937) and Paul VI’s Humanae Vitae (1968).
The 1965 Convocation was, at least later, known as Pacem in Terris I. Pacem in Terris II took place in Geneva in May 1967; Pacem in Terris III in Washington, DC in October 1973; Pacem in Terris IV in Washington, DC in December 1975. There is further audio material at the Davidson site. Toynbee did not participate again. Did the activities of the Center give Klaus Schwab his idea for the, admittedly business-oriented, Davos Symposium?
Fulbright speaks first, then Toynbee, then Zhukov (who was the director of the Institute of History at the USSR’s Academy of Sciences), then Abba Eban, whom Hoffman fails to mention in his introduction.
Abba Eban had given Israel diplomatic respectability at the outset. He brought it into the UN, where he was its ambassador from 1949 to ’59, while at the same time, from 1950 to ’59, ambasssador to Washington. He returned to Israel in 1959 and was its Foreign Minister from 1966 to ’74. He played a role subsequently played by Shimon Peres. He had a similar gift for coining audience-dazzling, audience-pacifying, sometimes empty phrases. He was fluent in many languages. He had clashed publicly with Toynbee in 1955 over the legitimacy of Israel and contributed a piece to MF Ashley Montagu, editor, Toynbee and History, Critical Essays and Reviews, Boston, Porter Sargent, 1956. He sounds here rather like King Abdullah. Note his modern use of the word diversity, as well as pluralism.
Toynbee comes across as genial rather than learned or profound. Is he right in saying that the Romans tolerated the Jewish religion? I suppose he means that their actions against the Jews were directed against a nation rather than a religion, to return to yesterday’s theme. Fulbright reminds me of John Daly in the CBS quiz of the time What’s My Line? It is all quite soothing to listen to. The Cold War world seems two-dimensional compared with the three-dimensional complexities we see now, though the question of when intervention is acceptable and when it is not is still alive. We can compare the half-imaginary enemies of 1965 with those of today, though these are liberal-minded speakers. There isn’t a word about natural resources. Allowing for more complex world-views, is a panel of this type at Davos likely to be better or worse? Neither, but more jargon is available now to mask whatever is being said.
After Eban, we hear comments from selected “distinguished citizens” who, at the end of each day, debated some of the proceedings – not necessarily the panel we’ve heard here. We hear, successively, Claiborne Pell, George Shuster, Frank Warner Neal, Eugene McCarthy, George McGovern, Steve Allen (this one?), Jerome Frank, Carl F Stover.
This gives us a sense of what Toynbee would have sounded like at Davos, had he participated between 1971 and ’74. Morton’s Bibliography (1980) has this entry under “tape recordings”:
“Arnold Toynbee, history, and the hippies. Santa Barbara, Calif.: Center for the Study of Democratic Institutions, 1969. 43 mins 44 secs. ‘… conversation with Raghavan Iyer, John Seeley, and Scott Buchanan, about the unlearned lessons of history, the futility of patriotism, and his admiration for the hippies …’” Her dots.
Morton has the year wrong. It was 1967. Buchanan died in 1968. Toynbee tells us in the conversation that he is 78. And he did not visit the US in 1969. He had planned to visit New York for his eightieth birthday, but a coronary in March prevented the trip. The 1967 visit, when he was based at Stanford, was his last. I don’t have its exact dates. McNeill says that he returned to England in June. According to the Donald C Davidson Library at the University of California, Santa Barbara, which has the Center’s archive, he was in Santa Barbara on May 1. The correspondence with Columba Cary-Elwes supports that date.
It was not technically the summer, but the hippies of the summer of love had begun streaming into the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco. The Monterey Pop Festival (Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Quicksilver Messenger Service, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Otis Redding, The Byrds, Big Brother and the Holding Company with Janis Joplin) took place in June. The song San Francisco, written by John Phillips of The Mamas & the Papas and sung by Scott McKenzie, was written to promote it and released on May 13, 43 years ago today.
This post refers to some currents in mid-century American liberal thought, touches on an idea which we have met in this blog before, that of federal “world government” (this was also the age of many actual experimental federations, such as the United Arab Republic), and traces a Chicago-Santa Barbara connection.
The Center for the Study of Democratic Institutions was a liberal-leaning Santa Barbara think tank and an offshoot of the Ford Foundation’s Fund for the Republic, a fund for the protection of civil rights and liberties. It had been founded in 1959 by Robert Maynard Hutchins. Hutchins was an educational philosopher and had been President, then Chancellor, of the University of Chicago.
The Associate Supreme Court Justice William O Douglas was the Chairman of its Board of Directors for a time. Stringfellow Barr from 1959 to ’69, Frederick Mayer, Linus Pauling from 1963 to ’67, James A Pike from 1966 to ’69, Robert Kurt Woetzel and Harvey Wheeler were among its fellows. Mortimer Adler, Joan Baez, Alan Cranston, César Chávez Estrada, Milton Friedman, Aldous Huxley, Martin Luther King, Bayard Rustin, Upton Sinclair took part in its deliberations.
Hutchins reorganized the Center in 1969. Harry S Ashmore was President from 1969 to ’74. Many associates departed. The new fellows included Alexander Comfort, later of The Joy of Sex, Bertrand de Jouvenel and Paul R Ehrlich.
Hutchins died in Santa Barbara in 1977. The Center declined in influence and found it difficult to raise funds. It became affiliated with the University of California at Santa Barbara, which sold its real estate. It absorbed the Fund for the Republic in 1979. In its later years, its greatest source of support was Chester Carlson, the inventor of the Xerox process. It closed in 1987.
In May 1967, the month of the discussion with Toynbee, the Center was behind a conference in Geneva called Pacem in Terris, after the encyclical of Pope John XXIII, whose purpose was to try to open paths for peace negotiations with North Vietnam. It was a sequel to an event it had held in New York in 1965 at which Toynbee had participated.
In August 1967 it hosted a conference of radical student leaders (in Santa Barbara?): Cop Out, Opt Out, or Knock Out. “In this discussion, college students debate the notion of effecting political change through mass campaigns of non-cooperation or outright disruption aimed at crippling society, but when pressed are unable to articulate their vision of the more just and humane society to follow should they succeed. Featuring Ewart F. Brown, Michael Goldfield, Hallock Hoffman, Robert M. Hutchins, and Frederick Richman.” (Description of tape of the proceedings held at Department of Special Collections, Donald C Davidson Library, University of California, Santa Barbara. Audio will be available soon. The Library website’s audio of the 1967 Toynbee discussion is faulty: the links above are to a different site hosting this material.)
Between 1964 and ’74 one of the Center’s fellows, Rexford G Tugwell, drafted a new United States Constitution (published as The Emerging Constitution, New York, Harper & Row, 1974). He thought a revised constitution essential for economic planning. Planning would become a new branch of federal government, alongside the Regulatory and Electoral branches.
He had participated in a Committee to Frame a World Constitution from 1945 to ’48. Two senior members of the University of Chicago’s Humanities faculty, Richard McKeon and Giuseppe Borgese, had proposed to the Chancellor, Hutchins, that the University sponsor a study group to do in reality what Hutchins had advocated in theory: write a constitution for world government. After the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, global planning was the only way to prevent a nuclear apocalypse. The University of Chicago, wrote McKeon and Borgese, “has played a decisive role in ushering in the atomic age, whose birthplace and date might well be put in Stagg Field, December 2, 1942. … There is no manifest destiny, but there is more than a symbolic value in the suggestion that the intellectual courage that split the atom should be called on, on this very campus, to unite the world.” (Quoted in John W Boyer, Drafting Salvation, University of Chicago Magazine, December 1995, at magazine.uchicago.edu. Other material I quote on this is also from there.)
Hutchins convened a Committee. Borgese became secretary of the group and the main writer of the final draft. McKeon had disagreements on some basic issues, which would diminish his role. Other members were Robert Redfield, then dean of Social Sciences at UC; Mortimer Adler (mentioned above), who had advocated world government in his book How to Think about War and Peace; Tugwell; the Law School Dean Wilbur Katz; a Harvard trio: William Hocking, James Landis and Charles H McIlwain; the theologian Reinhold Niebuhr (who later withdrew); and Beardsley Ruml, a former dean at Chicago and by 1945 the chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank in New York. The group convened its first closed meeting in the fall of 1945. At best, Hutchins hoped, “the world at large will have ample occasion to learn from our successes and failures, and to teach us and others. … We do not think [the constitution] will be adopted; we dare to hope that it will not be ignored.”
Elisabeth Mann-Borgese, the wife of Giuseppe and daughter of Thomas Mann and a research associate on the Committee, described the group’s inner workings for the University of Chicago Magazine in March 1949:
“The room where the Committee assembled approximately once a month (Cuban Room at the Shoreland Hotel in Chicago, Harvard Club or Roosevelt Hotel in New York) was small, bare, and concentrating. On the horseshoe table were placed, before 9 a.m., besides the usual ingredients such as note paper, pencils, and water glasses, some mimeographed research documents which were prepared by members and research associates in the intervals between meetings. The Committee worked usually two eight-hour days, interrupted or half-interrupted only by cocktails and luncheons together at one o’clock. When the members adjourned at 5 p.m., research associates would gather the papers and documents, often heavily annotated, sometimes with ornate doodling whose authorship it was teasing to identify.”
A “Preliminary Draft” was published in 1948 and was translated into forty languages. Mann-Borgese: the document “drew inspiration from the U.S., Swiss, Russian, Spanish, Weimar, Swedish, Chinese constitutions. … There is Christianity and there is Hinduism; there is free enterprise and there is socialism and economic planning. There is democracy and aristocracy. The inspiration behind it all may be defined as Social Humanism.” It was the best-known, but not the only, post-1945 draft of a world constitution.
Alan Cranston, mentioned earlier, was another supporter of the idea of world government. In 1945 he was present at a conference in Dublin, New Hampshire convened by the retired Supreme Court Justice Owen J Roberts and the former New Hampshire Governor Robert P Bass which proposed the transformation of the UN General Assembly into a world legislature with “limited but definite and adequate power for the prevention of war”. Many participants, including Cranston, went on to become leaders in the United World Federalists, which is a member of the World Federalist Movement. Cranston successfully pushed for his state’s legislature to pass the 1949 World Federalist California Resolution, which called on Congress to amend the Constitution to allow US participation in a federal world government.
Buchanan joined the Center for the Study of Democratic Institutions in 1957, Iyer in 1964, Seeley c 1966, becoming its Dean. Buchanan died in Santa Barbara in 1968, Iyer in 1995, Seeley perhaps there in 2007. Iyer was also the founder, in 1976, and President, of the Institute of World Culture. This survives in a Victorian house on Chapala Street. (His son Pico Iyer has set some fiction in Santa Barbara.) Yehudi Menuhin, who may have visited the Center and who, among his citizenships, considered himself a Californian, established an Assembly of Cultures of Europe, which met at the European Parliament in 1997, and would have liked an assembly of world cultures. Did this Assembly survive him?
One thinks of the “world musics” of various more or less west-coast composers: Henry Cowell, John Cage, Lou Harrison. Here is a very rare performance, by the San Francisco Composers Chamber Orchestra, of Cowell’s Madras symphony (no 13) of 1956-58, which had its first performance in Madras.
The Center must have found it easy to attract people: Santa Barbara was an idyllic place in 1967. It still is, but Menuhin wrote in his 1977 autobiography Unfinished Journey: “The California of the 1970s is but a poor plundered ruin of my childhood paradise.”
Toynbee makes some remarks, apparently to staff members. The background is the anti-Vietnam War movement and the draft. He is conscious of being a dissident on American foreign policy while being a guest in the country. But though a foreigner, he does not believe that in the present state of the world anyone is a foreigner to anyone any longer. The survival of Man is in doubt: the discussion is also taking place in the shadow of the Cold War.
McNeill, his biographer, tells us that the American Friends Service Committee, which was funding part of his American visit, decided to withdraw its sponsorship before he arrived. The Committee was affiliated to the Quakers, so it seems unlikely that their change of mind was connected with his views on Vietnam. McNeill implies that the difficulty concerned financial arrangements.
Then the tapes are introduced by one of the Center’s directors, Hallock Hoffman. Hoffman says incorrectly that this is Toynbee’s first visit to the US for several years: he had been there in 1965. After this come further extracts from Toynbee’s remarks.
He expresses sympathy with the young, torn between traditional loyalty to country and their private consciences. How can dissent be effective in a large democracy? How can voices be heard? Dissent and disloyalty, conscience and conformity. He would place the human conscience above country. What is our chief god, our paramount loyalty, as citizens? Conscience or the idol of the national state? Hierarchies of loyalties are particularly understandable within a federal system. He hopes for a future world federal government, but thinks that it will, and must, come about not from a constitutional convention, but in an untidy way. The conscience of Robert E Lee.
The informal conversation with the three senior fellows, Iyer, Seeley (the one with the guttural r’s) and Buchanan, follows, perhaps in the presence of the staff members.
Lessons from history. The apocalyptic present. Buchanan asks whether Toynbee remembers Borgese (above). He says that he does, but is sceptical about blueprints. Problems need to be addressed one by one. Iyer on martyrs and heroes. Gandhi. The hippies. St Francis. Toynbee says that the hippies have made the first and necessary act of repudiation, as St Francis did when he stripped and threw his rich clothes at his father, one of the first successful businessmen we know of by name in the western world. Would they go on to build something positive?
Buchanan asks whether there are any parallels between the monastic or mendicant orders and what is going on today. Toynbee suggests that the Diggers – the Haight-Ashbury “community anarchists” of 1966-68 – might turn into a mendicant order. It is pointed out that they were one already. (We think of them as givers, distributors of free food to the hippies, but that required them to be mendicants first.) Would new intellectual movements emerge, Iyer asks, that put the Prakrit of the hippies into the Sanskrit of the academies? The Buddha. Toynbee on taking establishments by surprise. Dark horses win. Martyrs again. Seeley: the conscience seems to remain reliable even after the traditional beliefs which used to underpin it have been removed. Toynbee says that he is a “religious-minded agnostic”.
Disenchantment is the key to the British dropouts: Toynbee compares a more violent, working-class British drug culture with the gentler one of the hippies. Iyer on fear of the end of humanity and faith in Man and on Toynbee’s achievement.
We recognise some of the historical examples Toynbee uses – of the English revolutionary war, the escape of James II, St Francis as dropout (A hippy gesture) – from Surviving the Future, his dialogues with Kei Wakaizumi of Kyoto Sangyo University, OUP, 1971. There is never anything like the richness of allusion that we get in the Study in his spoken words. Nor do we feel he can have been a great broadcaster, though he did a fair amount of radio broadcasting. The mannerisms get in the way, and we are reminded of EWF Tomlin’s observation in his Toynbee anthology (OUP, 1978):
In contrast to his smooth, measured prose [if it is that] (with its occasional artificiality of phrase, owing to his absorption in the classics), his everyday speech tended to be jerky and uneven [...].
At the end of the tapes Hallock Hoffman says that a fuller account of the discussion can be found in The Center magazine, volume 1, no 1. The magazine was published (at what intervals?) between 1967 and 1987. The printed summary is not mentioned by Morton.
The material on the Center at Google Books (if you want to go to that badly-organised place) gives an idea of the range of its activities and its importance in its years of fame. I have not consulted Harry S Ashmore, Unreasonable Truths: The Life of Robert Maynard Hutchins, Boston, Little Brown & Co, 1989.
Santa Barbara from the Santa Ynez range, Wikimedia Commons
Jimi Hendrix Experience concert, Earl Warren Showgrounds, Santa Barbara, August 19 1967
EWF Tomlin, editor, Arnold Toynbee, A Selection from His Works, with an Introduction by Tomlin, OUP, 1978, posthumous
Eduard Meyer, in his essay “Der Gang der alten Geschichte: Hellas und Rom”, [footnote: In his Kleine Schriften (Halle 1910, Niemeyer), pp. 231-2.] helped me to break away from the conventional nineteenth-century Western presentation of History as a play in three acts – “Ancient, Medieval, and Modern” – by showing me that the history of “Greece and Rome” was a unity, and that this unity was a whole that was complete in itself with its own Dark Age, Middle Age, and Modern Age. This unitary view of Greek and Roman history, which Eduard Meyer had given me, led me to look for a unitary name to describe the society whose history this was. I labelled it “the Hellenic Civilization”, and, when once I had identified one civilization, twenty other societies of the same species came into focus, one after another, in my field of historical vision.
Eduard Meyer, in his masterly picture of the Achaemenian Empire, [footnote: Meyer, E.: Geschichte des Altertums, vol. iii (Stuttgart 1901, Cotta), Erstes Buch: Der Orient unter der Herrschaft der Perser, pp. 1-233.] revealed to me the specific historical function of a universal state. By liquidating a host of idolized parochial states without succeeding in inspiring the same degree of devotion to itself, a universal state liberates, for conversion to the worship of God, psychic energy that has previously been concentrated on mutually conflicting idolatrous worships of Man’s Collective Self.
Meyer, 1910/11, by Lovis Corinth
A Study of History, Vol X, OUP, 1954